The Long Goodbye
by Onyx
Summary: Call me a sellout, but I actually did it. Grinz Here we have a story set in the original timeline where Goku dies of the heart virus. Here's the goodbye...and the lives of the remaining characters afterwards. Also, something that can be loosely called r
1. Default Chapter

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Chapter 1

_What am I doing here? _

Piccolo glared down at the lights beneath him in marked disgust. Every street stood out in sketched clarity, every streetlight beaming with the brilliance of a dozen stars. Looking up, the former demon was not surprised to find that the brightness of the city sprawled out below made the stars seem much, much dimmer. It was like comparing a candle to a spotlight. 

And he didn't like it. Not in the least. 

He didn't know why the city made him so uneasy, even when he was floating above it, invisible to the inhabitants below. He didn't need to fear discovery unless someone looked out a window - then again, what could these humans possibly do to him now? It wasn't like it had been when he was younger…he needed to be wary of perhaps four people on the planet as far as power was concerned. Of those four, one would not fight him full out for anything in the world, and one was infirm. 

Piccolo growled. It was time to get this over with so he could go back to his mountains. He glanced around slowly like an eagle searching for prey. His eyes locked on a building, one of the tallest in the city. That was it, he was sure. 

In a sweep of white cape, he was beside it. For the first time, an interesting question entered his mind: which window was the right one? There must have been hundreds of them, and they all had gauzy gray curtains drawn across them like lids over eyes. Nothing with humans involved could ever be simple, now could it? 

Closing his eyes, he opened his mental radar to search for a chi. Immediately, a wave of wavering signals, some stable, some not, some fading, some dying, flitted across his mind like a funeral parade. Appalled, the Namekian grimaced; this was a place for the sick, but he hadn't expected that. Worse, no one chi stood out from the others. He had some sorting to do, and it could very well take a while. 

Piccolo began discarding first one, then another in his usual, methodical way. All the while, a nagging feeling had latched onto him and refused to be shaken loose. Always before when he had been looking for this person, he had been relatively easy to find. His chi had always shone out like the sun in a cloudless sky. It shouldn't have been so hard…was he even here? 

Yes, he was. Piccolo had finally found a single chi that matched exactly the one he was seeking, but it was only a shadow of the real, genuine power. An unfamiliar emotion, one he did not yet have a name for in spite of the changes he had gone through, washed into him. Snarling, he tried to set it aside - this was business. 

There, that was the right window. Another emotion entered the Namekian's heart, but this one he knew: reluctance. He didn't want to look, the same way that a child who has cut his leg avoids looking at the wound. He wanted to turn around, go back to the wilderness. In a few days, that chi would be as high as it had ever been. In a few days, he would be able to laugh at himself for putting too much stock in a strange hunch… 

And if that chi never came back up, Son already knew what he had been coming to tell him. There was no reason for him to be weeding through all of these disturbing chis, there was no reason for him to be dangling in the sky outside a hospital at…Piccolo glanced heavenward. Which made him feel absolutely idiotic, for he had already established that he couldn't see the stars. He looked instead at a massive clock that hung a few blocks away… one eighteen in the morning. 

_That baka's probably sleeping anyway. He sleeps all the time, why should now be any different?_ He had about made up his mind to leave, had even turned to go. _It must be the time I've spent with these people - I'm becoming as irrational and distracted as they are. _

A faint sound came to him at that point: a mattress spring creaked. Two heartbeats later, a floorboard moaned in protest. It was coming from his room. Piccolo found himself warring with a combination of frustration and dry amusement. _Of course, he would have to be awake. You can set off a rocket next to his pillow, and he'll sleep right through it. Dump him in a lake, and he won't wake up unless you actually hold his head under the water. Kick him - hard - and he'll just mumble something about breakfast. Fly past his window soundlessly in the dead of the night, though, that's another story. _

Well, there was no help for it. Easing over the rail of the balcony like fog pouring over a ridge, the Namekian touched down softly. Only his own ears could have detected the faint pad of his leather soles on the concrete. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, sliding the window open and brushing the curtain aside as he would a cloud if he were flying. 

The being whom he had heard was indeed awake, as was to be expected. He was standing, which was not to be expected. The man was on his feet, albeit a bit unsteadily. His tail was extended behind him as if in an attempt to counterbalance his weakened body, and one hand rested on the bedpost as if to steady him. His hair was probably the only part that wasn't having any difficulty in supporting itself; it stood up in the same wild crown that Piccolo remembered. 

The man swayed once like a sailor on an unsteady deck. Rolling his eyes - it was just like Son to over-exert himself in a case like this, he hated hospitals - Piccolo moved forward in time to catch his longtime ally before he toppled. There he got another shock. Saiyans were denser and heavier than humans. Usually, catching one would be jarring. This time, Son didn't seem all that heavy. 

Son Goku looked up at him with widened eyes, but he was obviously less surprised to see a seven-foot-tall alien in his room than one would have expected. "Hey, Pic," he said casually, though to Piccolo's sensitive ears his voice sounded a bit strained, "glad you could stop by." 

"Hmph. You should be," Piccolo growled. "What were you trying to do, anyway? Give the doctor another nervous breakdown?" 

The Saiyan actually chuckled. "You're one to talk - you're the one who broke the skylight last time. Doctor Himegoshi said he'd turn in his degree and take up cab driving if this place didn't settle down soon." 

Smirking in spite of himself, the Namekian eased his burden into a sitting position on the hospital bed. "Yeah, well maybe I should break a few more skylights." 

"You're not still upset about the green Jell-O, are you?" the Saiyan asked lightly. 

"What do you think, baka?" the former demon shot back, raising one eye ridge. 

After looking at him for a few seconds, the Saiyan nodded. "You sure hold a grudge a long time, don't you?" His words were cheerfully flippant, which robbed them of any accusation they might have held. 

The former demon thought but did not say, _Not all grudges, Son._ Wiping that thought from his mind with an abrupt mental sweep - he really needed to do some meditating - he said, "You still haven't answered my question." 

The Saiyan yawned once before looking at Piccolo quizzically, his rounded eyes heavy with the lack of rest. "Right…what did you ask again?" 

With patience born of long practice, the Namekian closed his eyes and started counting. By the time he reached fifteen, he was fairly certain that he could speak calmly again. "I asked you what you were doing." 

"Oh." Goku sat up a little straighter, his expression becoming resolute. "I'm going home, Piccolo." 

Piccolo stood up, forcibly resisting the temptation to slap himself on the forehead. _Here we go again._ "Son," he began. 

"No." Goku shook his head firmly. "Don't you try and talk me out of it; that won't work this time." He looked up, meeting his taller companion's eyes unflinchingly. "I'm dying, I can feel it. I don't want to die here. I should be at home with my family." 

The Namekian blinked. _I can't have heard right. Son would never just give up and die. Not from a stupid virus._ Then again, it wasn't like the Saiyan to exaggerate except where needles were concerned. 

The Saiyan in question was now staring down at the floor. "I'm sorry, Pic. I didn't mean to just blurt it out like that, but I really do want to go home. Chichi had to leave this afternoon since Gohan would be coming home from school and no one had told him where I was yet. I'd call, y 'know, but it's kinda late an' I don't know how the phone works anyway, and somehow I never could remember the number, an' I don't know where the phone book is, and I wouldn't have any idea what area code to use. Actually, I don't know what an area code is, it's just something the operator told me I needed last time I tried calling somebody. Besides, Chichi doesn't have a driver's license, and Ox King says she drives like she's in the Demolition Derby, and…" 

Piccolo held up one hand, stopping the flow of words for the moment to give his mind time to catch up. His usually-quick brain had not yet moved beyond one concept - Son was dying. Son Goku. Dying. Son was…Piccolo shook his head hard. _Snap out of it! He's not immortal, why is it so hard to accept that he can die? Is it because you couldn't keep him dead and this virus can, or is it just…him? _

"Don't be ridiculous. You'll be fine," Piccolo snapped. "All you need is to stay here and rest for a few days, so cut the melodrama." 

Goku looked up again, his eyes taking on that look. It was the same look that he had worn in the 23'rd Budokai, the same bloody look that Piccolo had seen time after time, enemy after enemy. Piccolo braced himself mentally for an argument with a stubborn Saiyan. The good news was that Son probably couldn't put up much of a fight in his present condition. For some reason, that bit of knowledge didn't make the Namekian feel much better. 

"I'm not gonna be 'fine,' Pic, and you know it. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here." 

That comment brought him up short. It was true. Even the former Demon King couldn't deny it. However, before he could rally a defense, Son Goku spoke again: "Piccolo," he began, "if you don't help me, I swear I'll get there on my own somehow." 

Apparently, Son sensed that Piccolo was going to argue, for he played his trump card. It was the other look. Sometimes Piccolo swore that Goku had learned it from Gohan, sometimes the other way around. That look had done things that no amount of threats, dangers, or armies could have done. Alternately appearing on those two, it had gotten Piccolo dragged through unspeakable horrors, Frieza and driving tests included. It had gotten him sent to the far corners of the earth and had brought him back again, and had even pulled him from darkness - him, the incorruptible evil, the demon Ma Junia. 

And when he saw Goku's eyes soften into 'the look,' he knew that he had lost the battle. There was no point in fighting it any longer. 

Piccolo smirked, crossing his arms and tilting his head to the left. "You know, I might just stand here and watch you try. Seeing you flop around on the floor for a while might make this whole miserable trip worth my time." 

Much to the Namekian's surprise, Son Goku wasn't fooled in the least. He simply grinned the same lopsided grin that almost always followed 'the look.' 

"Stop gloating," Piccolo growled, lifting the Saiyan the same way he might have lifted a young child, trying not to be taken aback by how limp he was. "The only reason I'm doing this is to avoid more of your incoherent explanations." 

"Sure, Pic, I understand," the Saiyan murmured. He sounded tired, as if talking alone had drained him of his energy. By the time Piccolo reached the window, his passenger was snoring softly, his head lolled against one of Piccolo's shoulder pads. The Namekian hesitated a moment before plunging out into the night. _I could just leave him here. He doesn't need to know. In the morning, he'd think it all a very strange dream._

No, the time when he could have done something like that was long past. Whether he would admit it to anyone else or not, Son had grown on him in much the same way that Gohan had so long ago. With a last glance around the room, a last testing of the air with delicate green nostrils, a last listen for any strange footsteps, the former demon launched himself into the darkness, not bothering to close the window behind him. _These hospitals should develop a better security system if they actually expect to keep their patients. _

*** * ***

It had snowed on Mt. Paozo, Piccolo noted. The whole area was coated in a shallow layer of powdery whiteness. As far as the Namekian was concerned, snow was the single most miserable thing nature had come up with. Snow made one cold, wet, and blind if the light was right. 

He landed softly at the very edge of the clearing in which the Son house lay. This was from habit more than anything else; if he wanted to visit Gohan, then it was usually best if Chichi didn't see him right away. If he wanted to spar with Goku, it was best that she not see him at all. Therefore, whenever he came he would land in some inconspicuous place and wait for someone to pick up on his chi. 

The clearing was dark. No light came from the house. That meant that everyone was asleep or at least feigning it convincingly. It was up to him, then. 

Piccolo took a step forward. Son chose that moment to stir, something escaping his dreams through his lips. The Namekian halted his progress, staring down at the Saiyan. Goku was smiling softly, clutching at his mantle with one hand as a child might - as one child had actually done. An unaccountable lump lodged itself into Piccolo's throat as he tightened his grip marginally, holding his former enemy a bit closer. Perhaps, he rationalized, it was the Namekian version of maternal instinct. After all, Namek parents had to fulfill both roles. If so, the instinct was errant. Son was what, twelve years older than he was? 

Then again, maybe he was just being soft. He had trouble telling the difference anymore. "We're here," he said gruffly to break his own silence. Any sound would weigh lighter on his ears than Son's heartbeat, which was so much softer than it had been only weeks ago. 

Suprisingly, this comment actually woke Goku up. The Saiyan stirred, his eyes opening. "Already?" 

"Whattaya mean "already?" We've been flying for the past two hours. Isn't that long enough?" 

"Eh, I must have been asleep." Son Goku sat up a bit straighter, looking toward the house. Another small, lopsided smile curved his lips. 

"You realize," Piccolo growled, eyes narrowing, "that your wife is going to throw a vase or something at me the minute I walk through that door." 

Goku laughed softly, though it turned into a cough somewhere along the line. "Hai, sorry about that." 

The former demon started for the door again. Something in him said that it was now or never, but how could he begin? "Son, I've been meaning to tell you something." 

The Saiyan regarded him intently. 

"If you ever bring it up again, I'll deny it to the end, understand?" 

Goku nodded, though it looked as if he was fighting back another grin. 

Piccolo looked away, still finding it easier to speak to someone indirectly. "You…have an amazing child, Son Goku. Even I can see that." They were on the doorstep now. All that remained was to knock. 

"I know that, Pic." 

Continuing was even harder than Piccolo had thought it would be. "It seems to me that the acorn didn't fall as far from the tree as I used to think." There, it was done. 

He gaze was still pointedly averted, so he couldn't tell what Son's facial expression might have been, but he did hear his words: "Your acorn did." 

Piccolo shook his head, another smirk lighting his features. "No it didn't. Someone little brat came along and replanted it." 

Goku chuckled again. "Yeah, I guess that's true." 

Shifting his grip on his passenger, Piccolo cast one of the Saiyan's arms around his shoulders, supporting him with an arm around his torso. Son was now standing - supported, but standing. One green hand lifted, pounding the door once. The knock was hard enough to set the door rattling on its hinges, but not hard enough to crack the wood. "This conversation never happened." 

Son Goku winked. "Right, consider it forgotten." 

Unfortunately, both of them had forgotten something else, one small-but-ever-so-crucial detail. The door opened outward. 

"Goku!" A voice cried as the door swung fully open, or it would have had it not collided solidly with Piccolo about halfway. A thud resounded across the clearing. It didn't really hurt, but it certainly wasn't pleasant. Piccolo bit his tongue - hard - to keep from swearing. 

That thud drew her attention to him. "Piccolo! What are you doing dragging him out here at this hour of the night! Especially without a sweater and in his condition! You should know better than that! I…" 

Goku waved one hand - the one that wasn't around Piccolo's shoulders - dismissively. "This was my idea, Chichi. Pic didn't want to do it." 

The woman looked at her husband somewhat suspiciously. "Why?" 

Goku shrugged, nearly losing his balance. "Eh, you know, I hate hospitals." The Saiyan then looked up at Piccolo from beneath his wild bangs, his meaning clear: you keep my secret, and I'll keep yours. "Can we come in?" Son asked, once again employing 'the look.' 

Chichi actually smiled. "Well, there's no point in sending you back." She turned around and started walking. "Piccolo, if you would please bring him in here - I think that putting him on the couch would be easier than hauling him upstairs." 

The Namekian complied after spending a few seconds making sure that he wasn't going to faint. Seeing his surprise, Son whispered, "She's really a nice person, Piccolo. You just have to get to know her." 

Piccolo didn't respond. He simply deposited Son on the couch and stepped back. 

"I'm going to fix some tea. Make yourself at home." Chichi's voice, coming in from the kitchen, wasn't overly friendly but wasn't openly hostile either. No matter, it was time for him to go. 

"Goodbye, Son," he said softly, finding it suddenly very hard to speak. It was too hot in the house after being out in the wind, the walls were too close. 

"Will you be back?" Goku asked, his eyes half-lidded. 

Piccolo shrugged. "I might stop by tomorrow. You'd better still be alive." With that, he turned and swept silently out the door. This time, he was careful to close the door behind him. It was so warm in there - no point in letting the cold air in. He lifted into the sky more slowly than usual, turning toward the south. He was flying away. He wondered why it felt like a desertion. 

A faint tingling at the corners of his eyes caught his attention. It was the wind, it couldn't have been anything else. Certainly it hadn't been the sight of one solitary set of footprints across the snow-coated yard where there were usually two. It couldn't have been that. 

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	2. Chapter two

**Chapter 2**

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"Hey, Mr. Piccolo!" 

The Namekian started, his eyes going wide. He was very glad in a way that Gohan had come up behind him. He didn't want his pupil to see how off-guard he had been. That was a fine example to set for one's student: daydreaming. "Hmph," he said by way of answer. 

He could hear Gohan's bright, cheerful laugh, which was sudden enough to send several birds flapping into the sky from their warm places on snow-coated branches. "Glad to see you, too." 

Piccolo turned to face his student, doing his level best to keep his face stoic. That was nothing new around Gohan. Usually, Piccolo had to fight back a smile. This time, he was doing his best to conceal the gaping hole that seemed to have opened where his heart should have been. 

Gohan didn't know. 

The former demon let his eyes run over the boy. Gohan was what, twelve years old now? Already, the boy was beginning to look less like a child. His arms were knotted with muscle, the baby fat long since peeled away by rigorous training. His hair, in defiance of any and all methods his mother had used to control it, stood up in rebellious spikes: the true Saiyan style. Piccolo smirked, allowing himself a moment of wry amusement. Gohan looked more like his father every day. _ Who would have thought I'd ever be glad of that?_

"Mr. Piccolo, is something wrong?" the boy asked, his brows drawing together in concern. 

The Namekian winced internally. _ I should be more careful…_ Much against his will, the former demon was beginning to face the fact that his student knew him very well. Lying to the boy was not easy. Especially when he didn't want to lie. "No. Nothing," he said gruffly, hoping against hope that Gohan wouldn't ask any more questions. 

"Are you sure? You aren't acting like yourself." 

With some difficulty, Piccolo managed to stifle a growl. "I was just…wondering… about your father," he said. There, that was true. Well, half-true, anyway - but there was enough truth to it that Gohan wouldn't be able to tell the difference. 

Gohan beamed, his smile and big, glittering eyes lighting up the dimness of the cloud-covered day. "Don't worry, Mr. Piccolo. Dad's doing a lot better." 

The Namekian raised a browridge. "Is he now?" 

"Yeah. He was up walking around this morning. He doesn't eat like he used to, but he still puts away a lot. I guess he has to work his way up after the hospital food." Gohan made a face, which caused Piccolo to smile internally. Gohan's body had grown fast, but he was still a child in all the ways that mattered. 

But wait - Goku was feeling better? Something was strange there… 

"Dad even asked for you a while ago." 

Piccolo wanted very much to check and see if a stake actually had been driven through his chest, because that's what it felt like. However, he thought that would have been kind of obvious… "Did he? Why?" The Namekian was pleased that he had managed to keep his voice level. 

Gohan shrugged. "I dunno. He said something about thanking you for bringing him home. I said I'd go thank you for him, since you probably don't want to come over." 

Piccolo closed his eyes for a long moment to get his balance back. "It…was nothing," he managed finally. 

Gohan smiled to himself. His sensei had always hated being thanked - he was pretty modest that way. "Well, I'd better be off. School starts in fifteen minutes. I'll see ya later, okay?" 

The Namekian nodded once, forcing his eyes open. Gohan lifted into the air, waving goodbye in true Son fashion as he vanished into the layers of gray clouds like a fish into the sea. 

The onetime Demon King watched the place where he had disappeared for a long time, almost willing the boy to come back. He wanted an excuse to loiter here instead of doing what he knew he had to. 

*** * ***

A pair of glittering, garnet eyes peered through the thin layer of glass, eyeing the two people in the room. Son Goku was standing - yes, standing - on his own two feet, his tail swishing around at his ankles. The man was smiling, his head tilted a little to one side as he listened intently to his wife. Chichi was obviously giving instructions; Piccolo could tell by the wideness of her stance and the sureness of her expression. At first glance, everything was back to normal. 

Except…there was something wrong with Son's eyes. They were still bright, but they lacked the old fire. It was like comparing a hundred-watt bulb to a firefly. And the man was rocking on his feet ever so slightly. Only one who was carefully looking for such a thing could have seen it, but Piccolo did. He wished he hadn't. 

Apparently satisfied, Chichi left the room wearing a small, relieved smile on her lips. Goku remained on his feet until a few seconds after the door had shut, his eyes closing tightly and a hand raising to grip the fabric over the left part of his chest as if it, not his own heart, were responsible for his pain. 

Piccolo could see what was about to happen as clearly as he could see the house in front of him. He had the latch to the window undone before he realized that his fingers were moving, had shed his cape and turban equally quickly when he eyed the tight fit, and was inside the room in time to catch the Saiyan the moment his knees gave out. 

*** * ***

Goku had closed his eyes, hoping that he could retain control over his body for at least another few seconds. He focused the full of his attention on his fluttering heart, ordering it to stop this nonsense and behave itself. As if in response, it throbbed all the harder. 

The Saiyan was concentrating so hard on the new pain in his chest that he completely forgot to chastise his legs for turning to jelly beneath him. He pitched forward, anticipating the lifeless thud of his body striking the ground; instead, he fell into a circle of strong arms, his cheek coming to rest against loose, soft fabric. Goku smiled wearily, his breath coming in ragged gasps that moved him up and down a little. Not bothering to open his eyes, he said "Making a habit out of this, huh?" 

Piccolo - for he knew that was who had caught him - snorted. Goku could feel himself being shifted around into a less awkward position, so that the majority of his weight fell against the Namekian's forearms. Funny, why hadn't Piccolo said anything? The Saiyan laboriously opened his eyes and tilted his head up, doing his best to clear his vision. He saw the former demon (although he was somewhat blurry) staring down at him, his expression…sad. There was no other way to describe it. Just sad. 

Goku blinked, beyond words for one of the few times in his life. 

In the prolonged silence that followed, the former demon picked the man up as if he were a feather and not a full-grown Saiyan. Son really felt like he should have said something, but the dull ache in his chest was spreading, encompassing his lungs as well as his heart, now. He felt like the captain of a mutinying ship, helpless to do anything but watch as one sailor after another took up the revolution. 

He was still fighting to keep some semblance of control over his body when Piccolo lowered him onto the bed. The Namekian wasn't particularly gentle about it, but it was the thought that counted, after all. Goku let his eyes flutter shut as a pair of insistent hands pushed him down until he was lying on his back and, for a long time after that, he thought of nothing but following one difficult breath with another. 

The pain took a long time to fade. It never left completely anymore, but it did recede to tolerable levels if he gave it enough time. Drawing a shaky sigh, he tried to sit up. A large hand settled on his shoulder, forcing him back down easily. "Don't push it, Son," a low voice rumbled. 

The Saiyan's eyes popped open in surprise. "Pic…I thought you'd be long gone." 

A scowling green face came slowly into focus. "You think I'd just leave you like this?" 

Goku swallowed nervously. He had expected a snappy comment or a quick joke of some sort at his expense. However, when Piccolo had spoken there had been something almost…threatening in his voice. "Sure, I…I mean, no, but…" he realized he wasn't making any sense, yet he couldn't seem to help it. 

Shaking his head slowly, the demon sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed. Son Goku could feel the mattress depressing in his direction, the springs protesting softly under the added weight. "How is it?" Piccolo asked after a pause, the gruffness in his voice more obvious than usual. 

"Not so good, Pic," the Saiyan muttered. He smiled softly at the way the former demon's eyes narrowed. "You were right, I guess…" 

"About what?" 

Letting his smile grow a little wider, Goku whispered, "You always said…that my soft heart… would be the death of me someday…" 

The Namekian looked away as if he had been slapped across the cheek, his hands balling into fists. 

Another pang was coming, Son could tell, but he made up his mind that he wouldn't give in to it. At least, he wouldn't until Chichi left the house to go to the store. He turned his head, letting his eyes come to rest on one of Piccolo's clenched hands. Geesh, Pic was acting weird; he was touchier than usual. Goku hadn't meant for his comment to upset his friend this much; he'd just been trying to break the tension a little, that was all. It was too much effort to move his hands - those were beginning to feel like lead weights, cold and dead on the cloth - so he extended his tail, wrapping it carefully around the Namekian's wrist. 

Piccolo jumped a little, probably surprised by the feeling of fur against his arm, and looked back at him with dark eyes that glittered like wet onyx stones. "Why did you ask me to come, Son?" he asked in a voice that was barely above a whisper. 

"Because," the Saiyan whispered back, begging his body to wait just a little longer before attacking him, "you know what's happening." 

"Hai," Piccolo murmured. His long, graceful fingers uncurled slowly until his palm was flat on the sheet, making no move either to pull away from Son's rather strange gesture or to respond to it. "Why haven't you told them?" 

"I don't want them to be sad…" Goku gasped a little at the end, glancing at Piccolo and hoping he hadn't noticed. He had: the man could tell by the suddenly intent look in the former demon's eyes. 

"It's going to be harder for them in the end, when they realize that you've kept this from them," Piccolo admonished quietly. 

Son sighed. He knew that Piccolo was right; after all, hadn't his conscience been telling him the same from the outset? "I…I hate it when people are unhappy, Piccolo. I don't mind dying so much, but…but I don't want to watch them trying not to cry every time they see me, hear them…ah…" breathing was getting harder. This next attack was going to be bad, made all the worse by the wait… "whispering about me in the next room when they think I can't hear…" he shuddered, knotting his fingers in the tangled sheets beneath him. "I don't think I can deal with that. Am I being…selfish, do you think?" 

"No." The Namekian's voice was emotionless, a sure sign that he was trying to hide whatever it was that he was feeling. "Why me, then?" 

"Because, you're…" All of a sudden, the Saiyan felt as if a load of bricks had been dropped on his chest. "Ah! Piccolo, is…is Chichi gone yet?" 

The demon inclined his head, obviously in search of ki signatures. "No. She's on her way out, I think…why?" 

Son felt hot. Very hot - as if he were in an oven. He could feel sweat beginning to come out, pouring down his face in little streams, running inside his gi. He hated that feeling - it was as if dozens of little insects were scampering across his skin. The tightness in his chest wasn't helping, either. It seemed to be working its way up his airway, doing its best to choke him. "I don't want her to hear…when I…" 

He meant to finish speaking, he really did, but the pain hit him then, and he couldn't seem to remember where exactly he left off. He doubled over, sitting up and hunching over his knees, his arms crossing over his abdomen protectively. He could feel his face contorting as he clenched his teeth, hoping to keep from making any noise. 

"Son?" Piccolo's voice rose a little in alarm. 

Goku opened his mouth slightly to tell Piccolo not to worry, that he was alright, but no sound would come out save for a choked gasp. Even that was almost too much for him to deal with - it felt as if his ribs would collapse at the loss of air. One of the Namekian's hands came to rest on his back - awkwardly, but Goku was beyond caring - and he fell against his larger friend, muffling the animal cries he was making with the gi covering his former rival's shoulder. Hot tears were blazing trails down his cheeks, and he could taste their salt in his mouth. Piccolo went rigid, as if he had been turned to stone. Goku wanted to apologize - he knew how much the onetime demon hated to be touched - but he couldn't stop gasping long enough to try to force out words. 

The hand that had been on his back tightened marginally, keeping his thrashing to a minimum. The other hand came up and knotted itself in the tangle of his hair with obvious hesitance. If he had not been in so much pain, the Saiyan would have laughed. He knew the Namekian was just trying to keep him from hurting himself, but he could remember - isn't it strange, he noticed, how much a mind wanders when it's hurting? - a time not so long ago… 

*_He felt the blow from behind drop him like a clay pigeon that had been blasted, and was prepared to land feet-first on the ground. Goku was quite understandably a bit peeved when he landed in the water instead, creating a splash big enough to frighten wildlife for miles.. _

He came up sputtering, struggling out of his weighted shirt and boots before they could pull him under. Shaking his head wildly to get his dampened hair out of his eyes, he shot Piccolo (who was standing on the bank, smirking and conspicuously dry) the most indignant glare he could manage under the circumstances. 

The Namekian grinned wolfishly. "What's the matter, Son? A little water isn't going to ruin the sparring session for you, is it?" 

The Saiyan clamored out of the lake, an idea bubbling up in his mind. "No. Actually, I like water. How about you?" Lunging forward suddenly, he caught his unsuspecting sparring partner in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him off the ground. 

He wished that he would've had a camera to capture the look of utter shock and indignation on Piccolo's face. "Baka!" the former daimao hissed, struggling ineffectively. "Get off me!" 

Goku grinned, virtually mirroring Piccolo's earlier expression. "Why? Are you going to let a little water wreck the session for you?" 

The Namekian, who was now fairly damp himself, ceased his struggles and glared down at Goku with impressive presence for one in his situation. "I'll show you a wreck if you don't put me down…" 

"Whatever you say, Pic!" Goku retorted, his grin growing marginally wider at the sudden look of comprehension on his captive's face. It didn't do him any good to realize what was about to happen, however: by then, Goku had already dropped him. 

The Namekian hit the water with a considerable sploosh, getting Son wet all over again, but in his opinion it was worth it. Piccolo shot out of the lake (minus weighted cape and turban, of course) like an angry green torpedo, and the match was on again…* 

A fresh jolt of pain cut Goku's reminiscing short, as if the film to a movie had been cut. The Saiyan clutched fistfuls of fabric in his trembling fingers, lips moving in an unconscious, unvoiced chant: stop, stop, please stop… 

He barely even noticed when a trickle of blood painted its way down his lower lip. 

"Son, she's gone," Piccolo said, his voice hardly audible. "You can let it go." 

And he did, sobbing out loud for the first time since he had found his Grandpa Gohan dead in the forest. He registered vaguely that Piccolo was saying something to him - something in Namekian, over and over. He wished he knew what it meant… 

*** * ***

The first thing he thought of, when he could think of anything at all, was that it was strange for someone to be stroking his hair. He struggled back in to consciousness with an effort, opening his eyes yet again. Immediately, the hand stopped moving - so immediately, in fact, that Son wondered if he had imagined it. "Piccolo?" he murmured drowsily, his face still buried against what he imagined was the Namekian's shoulder. 

"What?" was the familiar, baritone response. 

"I'm sorry." 

He could hear the raised eyebrow in Piccolo's voice. "Phe. For what?" 

Goku would have shrugged, but he just didn't feel up to it. "You know. For everything." 

"Forget it." 

Blinking to clear the salty tear residue from his eyes, the Saiyan said, "I think I bled on you." 

A wry chuckle. "It's not the first time." 

"Piccolo," Goku asked with sudden urgency, "where's Vegeta?" 

Goku could actually feel the low rumble of a growl vibrating in Piccolo's chest. It was an interesting sound this close, he noted. "Off in space somewhere, trying to become a Super Saiyan so he can beat you. As per usual." 

Not daring to laugh, even though he felt like it, Son said, "The joke's on him, then. He already can." 

"Shut up," the Namekian snapped, although without much conviction. "Don't talk that way." 

"Why not? It's the truth…" Goku wondered again why Piccolo was acting so strangely. He was about to ask him, but something else occurred to him first. Shifting slightly, the Saiyan confirmed his suspicion. His tail was still wrapped around the Namekian's wrist. That made him a little nervous - probably because his tail had just grown back at the outset of his illness, and he wasn't used to having it yet - so he unwound his extra appendage and tucked it around his waist. "Piccolo, if you see him, will you tell him that I want to talk to him?" 

The former demon drew in a long breath and released it slowly. Son wondered if that had been a sigh. It wasn't Piccolo's usual, exasperated sigh…but it sounded like one, anyway. "On one condition," he growled. 

"What's that?" Son asked. 

Two hands clasped firmly on his shoulders, pushing him away a little, and Goku found himself staring into two very determined garnet eyes. "You have to drop this act." 

Gulping once, the Saiyan said, "Pic, I…I can't. This'll kill them…" 

"No it won't, Son. It's killing you, and it's killing…" the former demon trailed off, obviously changing his mind about what he was going to say. "If you don't tell them, I will." 

Goku bowed his head. "Okay, deal. I'll tell them." He was lowered onto his back again, and he felt the mattress spring back up - Piccolo was no longer sitting on the bed. Son sighed - he really didn't want to be alone, but he didn't feel like he could ask the Namekian to stay, either. He heard footsteps cross the room, a moment of silence, and then the brisk click of a closing window. 

Letting his head loll to one side, the Saiyan wondered how exactly he was going to tell his son that he was dying…and his eyes went a wide. Piccolo was standing with his back to him, fingers still resting on the window he had closed. "You know how your wife gets when people forget to close these," he said by way of explanation. 

Son grinned. "You still here?" 

A snort. "Yeah. You're stuck with me for the time being." Piccolo eyed Goku critically, his nose wrinkling the slightest bit, just enough to make the snarl lines apparent. 

"That bad, huh?" the Saiyan asked ruefully. 

"No, worse." Piccolo glanced at the bureau beside the window, picked up a handheld mirror, and tossed it in his direction nonchalantly. Son Goku might not have been in full fighting form, but his reflexes were as good as ever. He caught the mirror easily with one hand and, not bothering to sit up, he took a good look at his reflection. 

At first glance, he didn't recognize himself. His hair was damp with cold sweat, he could tell by the way it was drooping. Purple bags that looked a lot like bruises had appeared under his eyes, which were marked by two distinct, salty trails where unaccustomed tears had run. His lip was bloody - he must have bitten it. Either that, or he had been coughing up blood, but he didn't want to think about what that would mean. Even the more permanent aspects of his face were changed. His cheeks were slightly sunken; of course, if he hadn't been so pale, that would have been hard to notice. His eyes, too - those were tired. He couldn't remember a time when he had looked so worn out. 

"Point taken," he admitted, dropping the mirror unceremoniously beside the bed. 

Neither of them seemed to know what to do at that point. The situation might have gotten uncomfortable, but Son's stomach growled. The Saiyan proceeded to look sheepish while Piccolo rolled his eyes. "Figures," the former demon muttered. 

"Uh, Pic…I'm really hungry. Do you think you could…" 

A look of horror crossed the onetime demon's face, comparable to the one he had worn when the driving test was suggested. It was quickly concealed with a glare. "No." 

Somehow, despite his tiredness, despite all that had happened to him, Goku managed to give the look as effectively as ever. This time, Piccolo succumbed to the urge to slap his forehead. "Son, all the puppy eyes in the world aren't gonna get me to cook, alright? Give it up." 

"Aw, c'mon Pic. It's not that hard. There's bound to be something canned - just stick it in the microwave." He wondered as soon as the words left his mouth if Piccolo knew what a microwave was. 

"Can't you wait until someone else gets home?" He asked, his voice holding a note of - well, it sounded like desperation, but Goku dismissed that idea immediately. No one would get desperate over heating instructions, would they? 

Son didn't say a word in response, he just re-applied the look. Piccolo sighed, and this time it was his normal, exasperated one. "Fine. You owe me BIG, Son. And I don't want to hear about it if I blow up the kitchen. YOU can explain it to Chichi." 

It didn't occur to Goku that he might have made a mistake until long after the Namekian had swept out of the room. 

*** * ***

Piccolo let his eyes roam resignedly over the many shelves and cabinets that had been jammed into the modest Son kitchen. _ I must have the word "sucker" tattooed on my forehead or something… how did I let him talk me into this? _

_ He didn't talk at all, _ Piccolo reminded himself, growing all the more irritable because he couldn't deny it. _ You just gave in._

Pushing that thought (and what it implied) as far away as possible, he returned his attention to finding something edible. The first thing that caught his eye was a box - obviously some kind of mix. He picked it up gingerly, as if he were handling an explosive, and began skimming over the directions. 

1) Pour into large mixing bowl. 2) Add two eggs… 

The Namekian did a double take. No, he couldn't have read that right - could he? With slight nervousness, he opened the refrigerator. His eyes went remarkably wide when he saw a carton marked "One Dozen Large Chicken Eggs." 

"That's just…sick," he growled, shutting the door a bit more forcibly than was necessary. He glanced at the box, then back at the now-closed refrigerator, feeling vaguely nauseated for one of the few times in his life. Tossing the box unceremoniously over one shoulder, he muttered, "And they call me demonic." 

Even when he had somewhat recovered from the shock, he didn't feel at all like seeing what other atrocities a human cookbook might hold. He turned his head slowly, eyes roaming over the kitchen. They finally settled on two items: a phone and a book labeled "_Telephone Directory for Southern Japan._" 

After thoroughly berating himself for not thinking of this sooner, he walked over to the appliance. He paused a moment - he had never had occasion to use a phone before, but if Krillen could do it, it couldn't be that difficult. He opened the book, hoping to find instructions. Instead, he found long lists of names and corresponding numbers. 

"Hmm…" The former demon glanced at the telephone. There were number-coded buttons on the device. Rocket science was not required to figure out what should be done with the listed numbers. Piccolo began flipping through the pages, his long fingers moving with increasing speed. 

*** * ***

Tenko was about ready to go on his lunch break when the phone rang. He fairly dove across the counter to answer it - after all, business had been slow lately. "Flying Dragon Takeout, what would you like to order?" 

"Hmmm…good question," he heard a voice mutter on the other end of the line. Then, a bit louder, "What would you suggest?" 

Tenko blinked. "Um…we have several value meals, like…" 

"Fine." 

"Uh, sir…you didn't tell me which one…" he said, feeling a bit confused. 

"I don't care. Just bring about fifty of them to…" a moment of silence and the sound of shuffling paper, "Ye gods, I don't even know the address. Mt. Paozo. Do you know where that is?" 

This was beginning to sound suspiciously like a crank call. _ Oh well, who cares? I get paid extra for each delivery, prank or not…_ "Sure do. I'll be right over," he said, doing his best to sound cheerful. 

That was going to be one heck of a long trip by bicycle…maybe he should rent a car… 

* * *

  
  
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	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

Tenko almost drove right by the house because it was so small and well hidden by foliage. Before long, he wished that he **had** missed the place entirely. He was forced to spend several frustrating moments maneuvering his air car back and forth before he could find a gap in the trees wide enough to accommodate his vehicle, and a few moments after that wondering if anyone would mind that he had inadvertently landed in a flower bed. 

Grumbling to himself - whoever made this order had certainly better be a big tipper - he lifted a wheelbarrow from the back seat and set it on the ground. Still muttering under his breath, he opened the trunk…and was immediately buried in the ensuing avalanche of boxes. 

Much lifting, kicking, and griping later, the delivery boy had managed to wrestle the offending meals into submission and embarked on the short trip to the door. He knocked a little more loudly than he needed to, but if there was any chance that the caller had been on the level, he wanted to make sure to catch him at home. 

He raised his hand to knock again, but the door fell away and he found himself staring at…a belt. He looked up. And up. And up…into a scowling green face. He felt his jaw drop, and dropped it stayed until he realized that he couldn't talk at all. 

"Uh…where would you like me to put these…ah…"

The "ah" came when the green man tilted his head, eyeing the wheelbarrow's contents as if judging their weight. The strange creature nodded as if it found whatever it had been looking for satisfactory…at which point all of the packages lifted into the air and went zipping through the open door. Tenko checked his exclamation by biting the inside of his cheek, noting as he did so the vaguely preoccupied look on his…customer's?…face. 

"Thanks, but I can take it from here," the man remarked, speaking with reflexive sarcasm. He turned abruptly, obviously intending to reenter the house. 

Gathering his courage, Tenko piped, "uh…sir, if it's not too much trouble…could you maybe…pay me?" 

The alien being turned, regarding him with one raised eyeridge. "Pay?" he asked incredulously. 

Not knowing how else to respond, Tenko nodded. 

Rolling his eyes, the demon waved a hand. What looked like a yellow brick clattered on the doorstep. "I trust this will do?" he asked indifferently. 

Upon looking closer, the boy noticed that the object was, in fact, a brick. A brick made of solid gold. His jaw dropped again, rendering him completely mute. His customer, probably taking his shocked silence as aquisence, slammed the door practically in his face. 

The human promptly fainted. 

*** * * **

Piccolo shot the closed door a last, scathing glance. He had been able to smell the fear of that human and, rather than accepting it as an accolade due his rank as he once would have, he found that it now served only to annoy him. Then again, there had been a time when the mere sight of him would have been enough to send _any_ ordinary human scurrying away like a squirrel from the jaws of a hungry fox. 

"Phe, he's too young to remember that," the former demon muttered, shaking his head. "He couldn't have been much older than Gohan…" 

Perhaps that was why he had paid the kid rather than blast him for his impudence as he once would have. "Stop making excuses," he growled. "You've just gone soft." 

That confession, made only to himself, a few dozen kitchen utensils, and a fridge containing (among other unnamed horrors he had no intention of discovering) stillborn chickens, served to worsen his mood. 

*** * ***

His first thought, when he landed on the grassy expanse of the lawn, was that his mother was going to kill whatever unfortunate person had destroyed her flowerbed. Gohan crept closer for inspection, glancing around furtively lest his mother appear out of nowhere and blame **him** for the agricultural disaster that was the rose bush. It looked as if a large vehicle had been parked there. He raised one eyebrow in an expression that he had inadvertently picked up from his mentor. "Why in the world would someone drive all the way up here in an aircar that big?" 

Gohan turned his head toward the house, a certain sweep of his hair turning him for a brief moment into his father - but then the ebony locks settled, and the illusion was gone. "And what is Piccolo doing here?" A visit from his mentor was nothing unusual, save that his father and the Namekian were both inside, not darting about the sky like a couple of dueling wasps. 

He was getting a funny feeling in his stomach, one that seemed bent on twisting his insides into sailor knots and leaving him doubled on the lawn. Though he did not know it, this was one of his mother's gifts to him - she had a penchant for detecting trouble, one that had nothing to do with chi sensing abilities. 

He flung the door open, but the sound it made was paltry compared to the wild thundering of his heart. He was in the living room before the heavy oaken portal had finished a full swing, turning his head to and fro in search of his father or his mentor. His restless eyes settled on Piccolo, who was just looking up from his meditation, green lips pursed in a moue of frustration. The pity in his ebony eyes, quickly concealed, confirmed all that Gohan had been dreading. "Piccolo, what is it? Where's dad? What happened? Why did…"

The Namekian raised one hand, fingers gracefully curved, and waved it dismissively. "Control yourself," he said, voice aggravatingly calm. "You know better than that." 

Gohan opened his mouth, closed it, bit his lip. Blinked his eyes, stared at the floor. Finally, "_Shumashen__, Pikkiro-san_. Something's wrong, isn't it?" 

His mentor looked away, the narrowness of his eyes and the set of his shoulders speaking volumes in the silence between them. "It's not for me to say." 

He had never heard Piccolo sound so regretful. "Wh..where is my daddy, Piccolo? He's the one who has to tell me, isn't he?" 

A nod. 

Gohan spun on his heel, dashing toward the stairs. He did not see the flash of purple in front of him until he had slammed into it, so he knocked his mentor back a full pace before the larger being could stop the both of them. The boy looked up (and up) at Piccolo, disbelieving, and tried to step around his teacher. The Namekian moved as well, still blocking his way, and looked down at him with a disapproving frown. "You can't go up there like that," he growled. 

Blinking - his eyes seemed to have grown blurry for some reason, he couldn't see - he stammered, "L…like what, Mr. Piccolo?" 

A clawed finger brushed lightly across his cheek, and the half-Saiyan flushed when it came away moist. "Pull yourself together, boy." 

"Dad doesn't care if I cry, Piccolo," Gohan said flatly. Piccolo obviously didn't miss the resentment in his voice - his dark eyes narrowed farther. Regret twinkled in the boy's mind for the space of a heartbeat before he stifled it and started again around his mentor. There would be time for apologies later. 

A hand clamped down on his shoulder like a vice, a gasp slipped from the space between his lips. Piccolo's grip was painful - _he** never** hurts me outside of sparring, what…_

He met the former demon's eyes again, wondering if he had gone too far and really made Piccolo mad at him. He hadn't thought he'd said anything too severe, but with Piccolo it was hard to tell - his mentor had several deep scars running across his soul, and he rarely bared them to view…usually only after one of them had been reopened. The Namekian was looking back at him with the blank, schooled mask that Gohan had not borne the brunt of since before the Saiyans had come. "Mr. Piccolo," he started, heart clenching. "I'm sorry, I…I didn't mean…"

"I know what you meant." The same cold, toneless, soulless voice as before - no trace of care anywhere. "I… Gohan, listen to me." The Namekian did something he had never done before. He lowered himself to one knee, the hand on Gohan's shoulder relaxing slightly, fingers now swastikas in the fabric, not the talons of some large bird. "Your father…he's a very strong man, and one of the bravest, I think, that has ever lived." The garnet eyes softened for a moment, prompting another twinge of fear to dig into the boy's heart. "That doesn't mean he's never been scared, kid." 

Gohan, shaking his head in denial, tried to step back, but the hand on his shoulder prevented him from moving. "Ossu…I know. You've never seen him scared. That's because he's always tried to be brave for you, for his friends, for…for the rest of us," the Namekian continued, looking away abruptly. 

"This time…I can't explain, but it's different. I don't think I've ever seen Son so…" the former demon cleared his throat. "Never mind. Just…he needs you to be strong for **_him_** this time. Can you do that?" 

Gohan nodded, not because he thought he could do what Piccolo asked, not because it was the quickest way to get upstairs, not out of curiosity, not even out of fear, but because he couldn't stand to see such an imploring look in the eyes of a man who had never begged for anything in his life. "It's really bad, isn't it?" he whispered, not trusting his voice to stay steady. 

Piccolo refused to meet his eyes, but he stepped out of the way, and Gohan was past him, taking the stairs three and four at a time. The Namekian took a step forward as if to follow him, but changed his mind. _Best if I don't, Son can handle it. He'd better be able to. _

It occurred to him that it might be a good idea to make some tea. Some very strong tea. Humans drank that when they were upset, didn't they? 

*** * ***

It wasn't Gohan who staggered into the kitchen an hour or so later, Piccolo noted, but a haggard, empty zombie wearing his student's face. Wordlessly, he shoved a steaming mug in the boy's direction, trying his best not to wrinkle his nose at the strong smell of the liquid. 

At first, it was obvious that Gohan did not recognize the object that had been forced into his hand - he stared down at it as if it were an artifact from a forgotten age, dated sometime BC…before crisis. Then, he shook his head, bangs lifting and then settling down around eyes that were dull, dry stones, not the shining pools that Piccolo had become so familiar with. "Oh. Thanks, Mr. Piccolo." 

The former demon raised an eyeridge. The boy was not drinking; instead, he hunched down in a forlorn little wicker chair and stared at his reflection in the surface of the tea. 

"Kid," the Namekian said softly, reverting to the only pet name he had ever allowed himself to fall into the habit of using. That was all, just that one word, and yet somehow it was all he needed to say - it was question, consolation, and heartfelt apology all at once. 

"How long have you known?" The boy was now swishing the tea in little circles in the cup. 

"Since I brought him home." There was no more trace of apology in his voice, he would not allow it. 

"He made you promise not to tell, didn't he?" 

Nod. 

Gohan nodded as well, then threw his head back and drank deeply while Piccolo managed not to sigh in relief. "You alright?" he asked instead, more gruffly than usual. 

"No." The boy resorted to tapping his fingers listlessly against the sides of his mug. "How long are you going to stay?" 

Piccolo flinched at the question. How long _would_ he wait? Son didn't really need him now that the others knew, and Gohan would have his mother and his friends to help him. Obligation-wise, he was free to go. 

Well, except for one tiny little detail. One small, insignificant, virtually unnoticeable problem. The thought of walking out and washing his hands of the whole, messy situation made his heart do strange things. He could never explain something like that, so he dodged the question in true Piccolo style. "I'm going to go check up on him," he muttered, exiting the room a bit too quickly. 

He wasn't running, though. Not at all. At least, that's what he kept telling himself on his too-short trip up the stairs. And he almost believed it. Almost. 

* * *

  
  
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	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 *Author's note – Whoops, wrong chapter 0o. Well, here's the fis….and  Merry Late Christmas, folks ^^ 

* * *

Piccolo didn't know what he had expected to do once he got upstairs. Perhaps he'd had some vague idea of finding out what Son had said to Gohan. In any event, it didn't matter, because he didn't make it past the door. Son was asleep. 

Miraculously, the Saiyan wasn't snoring, although he was sprawled across the bed with all of his customary abandon. His legs were hopelessly entangled in the sheets - no doubt he'd trip over them if he tried to get up. Goku's expression was soft, hanging between peaceful and exhausted. Apparently, the Saiyan had been completely worn out by the day's events. Piccolo found his lips curling up quite inexplicably. 

Habitually, the Namekian leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. This was not the first time that he had seen his longtime ally asleep; the two of them had often collapsed in the desert after long sparring matches, and Son had actually dozed off on occasion. This was just the first time that he'd really paid attention - usually, he'd simply been trying to block out Son's legendary snores. 

Son Goku looked so calm, so still, so…young. He was a bit more muscular than he had been at the 23'rd Budokai, and perhaps a bit taller, but that was all. His face was still open and more or less unlined with worry, save for a single furrow across his forehead - but not even Son could be expected to remain completely unaffected by a lifestyle like his, Piccolo supposed. 

It was hard to believe that the man was over thirty. Twelve years older than he was. Gods, he didn't look it. Even in his sleep, the Saiyan's lips were forming the shade of a smile - which made him look all the younger. The scene was very familiar to Piccolo, somehow. Yes, that was it: this was how Son had looked after the battle with Raditz, when he…

The Namekian leaned more heavily against the frame of the door when his legs suddenly refused to hold him up. That was a lifetime ago - or so it seemed, though it had only been about five years - and yet he still remembered the intense feeling of emptiness that had settled inside him at the loss of his enemy. The lack of purpose. He had realized then how little world conquest had actually meant to him. His real goal, all that time, had been to defeat Son Goku. And when he was dead, Piccolo hadn't even been able to enjoy it. He had felt guilty. Never before in his life, with all the people he had killed, had he felt **_guilt_**. But Son…Son had always been different. 

Sure, he had wanted to think of his rival as just another stupid, weak, drivel-spouting monkey. He had even called him that on many occasions, as if saying it enough would make it true, but there had always been a difference between Goku and the others. At first sight, most humans classified him as a monster, a demon…Daimao. Not Son. To Son, he had always been just another person, no matter how he acted or what he had done. 

And because he felt _guilty_ about killing the only person who had ever treated him as anything other than a freak, he had taken on his child to train - and then that brat of his had to turn out to be exactly the same way. 

Piccolo hadn't known, after he died, how Son felt about the whole incident. After all, it was one thing to feel more or less amiable toward someone who was strange, but quite another to feel that way about your murderer. He kept telling himself that he didn't care - it was Gohan that he was worried about. And he **was** worried about his young pupil, very much so, but…

Then, he had heard Son's voice on the other side of the connection that Kioh-sama had set up. The Saiyan had actually sounded glad to see him. Glad that he was at Kioh's place, glad that he was alright. Piccolo had been utterly confused…but that was pretty much normal around Son Goku…

Piccolo realized at that point that his eyes were watering. This time, there was no wind to blame it on…just the faint lamplight in the room, a sleeping Saiyan, and a decade's worth of memories. 

And, because there was no one else around, he made no attempt to stop the tears. He did not sob, his breath did not hitch, his breathing pattern didn't even change - a few tears simply rolled down his well-defined cheeks to drop onto the otherwise-spotless floor. "This is your fault too, Son," he muttered. "Do you know I've never cried in my life before now? I didn't think myself capable." 

Son whispered something in his sleep, probably pertaining to food, and fell silent. Piccolo smirked in spite of himself. "It's just as well that you aren't awake - I still don't think I could do this in front of you." 

*** * ***

"Gohan, sweetheart? What's wrong?" 

Gohan jumped guiltily at the sound of his mother's voice, spilling tea all across the table as he did so. How could he not have heard her come in? He turned sheepishly toward the door, doing his best to say with his facial expression that everything was perfectly fine and there was no reason to worry whatsoever. 

The result, of course, was that Chichi knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. "Gohan," she said in her best warning, maternal voice, "what is it?" 

Gohan closed his eyes, obviously making an effort to keep his voice steady. "It's…it's about Dad…"

*** * ***

The minute Piccolo heard the light, precise footfalls on the stairs, he knew that he was going to have some serious trouble on his hands. Trouble with a capital C. He withdrew from the doorframe unhurriedly, closing the door behind him. He was glad of the poor lighting in the hallway. There was no more water pouring from his eyes; all the same, he knew that the trails might still be visible, and he certainly didn't feel like explaining them. 

He did not turn his head when he heard her approach. Not even when he heard her stop, heard her tapping one foot impatiently. "Well?" She snapped at last, her voice a choked whisper. 

Choking on anger? Piccolo wondered briefly. Anger or grief? Maybe both. "Well," he repeated softly, without inflection - long practice had taught him to keep his voice level, even when he was falling apart inside. 

"How long have you known?" 

He managed not to flinch - the question tore through the silence like a whip. "A while." 

"How long?" She repeated emphatically. 

"Since he told me." 

"Which was…" she pressed. Piccolo could hear a slight tremor in her voice. 

"The night I brought him home." 

Silence. He waited, unsure if he expected more for her to burst into tears or start screaming at him - or perhaps some combination of the two. Finally, unable to contain his morbid curiosity, he turned his head to look at her. The woman was staring at him with watery brown eyes; her skin had paled from peach to porcelain. Her veins showed blue beneath, so white had she gone. He blinked, feeling the faintest stirring of commiseration. It wasn't much at all, and he'd certainly never experienced such a feeling before, but it was definitely there. 

He was just beginning to wonder what he should say when she slapped him. 

She hit him hard. Any other human woman would have broken her hand, but Chichi had actually succeeded in turning his head. He could feel jolts of pain creeping down his cheekbone, feel the blood rushing in gleefully to form a new bruise. 

Ten years ago, he would have killed her before he'd even realized that he'd killed her. Now, Piccolo had time to clamp a stranglehold on his instinctual response, which would have been to bat her aside like a fly. And he was no small amount frightened that he'd been **able** to prevent himself from snuffing her life out…who was he turning into, anyway? Son Goku? 

His pent-up frustration at the situation, at his own helplessness, at whatever had enabled him to feel frustrated or helpless, bubbled to the surface like oil separating from water. He drew himself up to his full height, his graceful ears nearly brushing the ceiling, and glared down and down…and down at the woman. 

*** * ***

Chichi wondered for a brief moment if her husband might outlive her, after all. 

When she had come across Piccolo, he had met her with a detachment that had positively infuriated her. She could have dealt easily with scorn by returning scorn, sympathy by returning sympathy…but schooled indifference she would not and could not reflect. Not when her husband was dying. And not when this creature had known and not told her. 

Not when this monster had known before she had. 

Still, she scolded herself for striking him. It was a wonder he hadn't fried her on the spot…or perhaps, she thought, noting the vibrating tautness of his shoulders, he considered that too quick a death for her. Well, regardless, she wouldn't let him see that his presence was shaking her. Chichi drew herself up proudly, hoping that she had managed to make the upward tilt of her head look defiant and not as though she were trying to see his face. 

"If I were you," the Namekian hissed abruptly, his voice seeming to slither from his lips, "I would **never** do that again." 

Chichi balled her hands into fists and jammed those fists onto her hips, the very picture of maternal indignation. Who was he to threaten her in her own house? "And if I were you," she shot back snappily, "I'd see to it that I learned some manners." 

"Manners?" The former demon repeated incredulously. He tapped one long, taloned finger against his cheek before crossing his arms. "This from a hostess who slaps her guests?" 

"I didn't invite you." 

A snort. "Good thing - I wouldn't have come." 

"Then what are you doing here?" She retorted tartly. 

One of Piccolo's lips curled back to reveal a single fang. It was far larger than she'd remembered - it curled almost like a cat's, and gleamed wetly even though there was little light. She wondered if he was snarling on purpose, or just doing it from habit. 

"He asked for me," Piccolo replied in a tone as barren as the wilderness he'd come from. 

"Well, Gohan isn't allowed to invite his…**_friends_** …over without permission, so if you'll…"

"Friends," the former demon spat, snarl lines crossing his nose like creases on a map. "Why don't you say what's on your mind, woman? You don't want him to bring all the freaks he's run across lately into your quiet, comfortable little domestic fantasy - isn't that a bit closer the mark?" 

Chichi took a sharp breath. She opened her mouth, but there were so many words clamoring to come out that they got tangled up in her throat. She made no sound for several moments, during which she felt an angry flush coloring her cheeks. Then, the strongest of the words came tumbling out: "It **was** quiet and comfortable - right up until **you** got involved in it. Nothing's been the same since." 

Piccolo uncrossed his arms, pulling them down to his sides in taut, trembling fists. A warning tickled the back of Chichi's mind - a warning that this being had once been the demon king, that he had killed for far less reason than she was giving him. She irritably told that little warning voice to shut up. 

"You think I wanted this?" Piccolo shot back in a low, penetrating rumble. "You think I wanted everything in my life to be completely disrupted…"

"You? Disrupted? I'll tell you what disrupted is, mister…" Chichi said in a voice that could only have been described as a muted screech. "Disrupted is waiting for months and months for your baby to come home, never hearing a word about whether or not he's okay, knowing he's out in the middle of nowhere with some lunatic who's killed your husband. Disrupted is not being able to sleep at night because you're afraid that when you wake up, the people you care about will be gone - again. Disrupted is coming home to find a demon in your upper hallway…" 

"…because your husband sent for me," Piccolo interjected flatly. 

Chichi stopped in mid-spiel, her mind snowballing from the sudden halt. "…What?" 

"He asked Gohan to bring me, so I came. Not that I've particularly enjoyed the visit, but…" he shrugged. "I don't usually enjoy being around humans. They jump to so many conclusions." 

Chichi stared blankly at him for perhaps a full minute, willing the wheels in her mind to start turning. Goku had asked for him? Why? Why Piccolo? And she realized something else, something that swelled her throat and chilled her heart. "He told you?" she repeated his words numbly. 

The Namekian raised one brow ridge. His expression didn't warm in the least, but she noted that he seemed far less threatening when he was puzzled. 

"He told you he was dying. That's how you knew. That's why you brought him home." She was repeating those words slowly in her mind, beginning to realize just why they disturbed her so…

Piccolo made a sound deep in his throat, something between a growl and a sigh. "I honor last requests when they make sense." 

Her tongue felt heavy and thick, as if it had somehow been turned to a slab of leather. "He told you before he told me." 

The Namekian tilted his head slightly. His facial expression relaxed only slightly before slipping back into the indifferent mask that she knew so well - but something happened in his eyes. It only lasted a moment; it was a twitch, a reflexive shudder of an emotion that she didn't have time to identify. 

"Why?" She asked numbly. 

Wryly, "I don't know. It might have something to do with the way you're reacting." 

That one hurt. Chichi looked down sharply, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes, fighting it. She wasn't going to let him see her cry - not even if he **was** right. 

**Especially** because he was right. 

Had Goku been afraid to tell her? Or had he just not wanted to deal with her response? Either way, the results were the same. Goku had confided in the man who had killed him more than he'd confided in his wife. And, looking back on her behavior of the past few minutes, she couldn't blame him. Piccolo obviously wasn't phased in the least by the news - it must not bother him at all. So naturally, he'd act exactly the same. No wonder Goku had told him; he'd always hated to be fussed over. 

"…I knew before he told me." 

Chichi blinked, looking up before she remembered that she was supposed to be hiding the tears in her eyes. Had that been a concession? From Piccolo? He had said the words abruptly, flatly as always….but there was something placating about them, all the same. "What?" She said softly, managing somehow not to sound incredulous. 

Piccolo was no longer looking at her - rather, he seemed to be looking through her, or past her, or over her…she couldn't tell. "…I already knew. That's why he told me. That's the **only** reason he told me. That, and he needed me to take him home. I wouldn't do it without an explanation." 

She blinked. Was he trying to make her feel better? That was absurd, wasn't it? He hated her. At least…she was fairly sure that he hated her. After all, she hated him…

Didn't she? 

More to stop herself from thinking than to find out, she asked, "How much longer does he have?" 

"Not very." 

She was forced to clench her teeth against angry words at his brusqueness. They were speaking civilly now - that was an improvement. And she wasn't going to wreck it by berating him for talking about her husband's death as though it was a baseball game. "Long enough to get the dragonballs? Could we possibly…

"We could," Piccolo replied with unsettling quickness; obviously, he'd been thinking about the same thing himself. "Wouldn't help. Sickness counts as a natural cause of death." 

She felt a sudden, painful constriction in her gut. She hadn't realized that this time, her husband might be going away for more than a year or two. This time, it might be forever. 

She was going to lose him. Really lose him. She swayed once on her feet, put one hand against the wall to steady herself. The other fluttered to her forehead like a wounded bird. "Dear Kami…" 

"Don't say that." 

She blinked hazily, looking at Piccolo with one eyebrow raised. 

"There's nothing dear about that old man." 

Chichi wasn't sure whether she wanted more to laugh, or cry until her eyes ran dry of tears. She looked down, not even lifting her eyes when she realized that Piccolo had moved a step closer to her. 

Not even when she heard his gruff, gravelly question: "Can you stand?" 

She looked up at him then, seeing his outline blurring. She blamed the poor light, because it couldn't have been tears. She had made up her mind not to cry in front of him, hadn't she? 

"I'm…fine. Listen, Piccolo, I'm going to go back downstairs and talk to Gohan for…for a while, alright?" 

A low snort. "Your house. Do what you want." 

She nearly bit her tongue before the next words left her mouth. "Would…would you stay up here just in case he wakes up?" 

Quietly, "I'd planned on doing that anyway." 

Chichi nodded once, turned, and all but fled down the stairs, aware all the while of a pair of sharp, garnet eyes boring into her back until long after she had disappeared around a corner. 

* * *

  
  
****


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 

* * *

Piccolo could hear the sounds coming from the kitchen plainly, even from the second floor. Muted crashes, harsh clatters, scattered thumping - the sounds of vegetables…and occasionally china…meeting violent ends. 

This had been going on for the past three days. He had begun to wonder how there could possibly be any serviceable glassware left in the house. 

A by-now-familiar cadence on the stairs announced that Chichi was coming, most likely to bring food. He did not look up. He remained as he was, leaning casually against the hallway wall, arms folded. Outwardly, he knew, he looked calm. Unruffled. As completely and utterly unconcerned as a Grecian statue. 

Which he was. 

Or so he'd kept telling himself over and over - to the point that it had nearly become a mantra:_ I don't care, I don't care, I DO NOT care…_. It was the only way he managed to keep from dissolving into a very unbecoming, undignified, un-Piccoloish emotional tangle. He dared not meditate. Not until it was over, and he could get away from these people long enough to deal with…

Phe. There was nothing to deal with. He was fine. Calm. Neutral. 

_The way I'm going, it's gonna take me a solid year of meditation to get my head on straight again._

Then, he heard Chichi reach his floor. He kept his face cast downward in an attitude of thought…but he let his eyes stray long enough to assess her. She was walking with the same smooth, purposeful stride she always used. Her head was high; she was even humming softly under her breath. She didn't even spare him a glance; she acted as though he simply did not exist. 

He wondered how long she'd go on pretending that everything was alright. 

He wondered how long _he_ would. 

And, morbidly, he wondered which of them would break first. 

That was when he heard the knock at the door. He wasn't unduly surprised - Son's friends had been stopping in a great deal over the past few days. Gohan had made it his personal mission to notify them all, and the boy worked fast. He hadn't been home in the past two days, save to fall into his bed to sleep. Piccolo supposed it was his way of dealing with his grief: working too hard to realize how miserable he was. 

So he wasn't surprised that _someone_ had knocked. He was surprised at _who_ had knocked. He knew who it was the moment he heard the sound; he knew without even exerting his chi senses. There was only one person who could make a knock _sound_ condescending. 

_So, asparagus-head's finally come to pay his last 'respects.'_

He saw Chichi come darting out of Goku's room, all but flying down the stairs, sidelocks streaming behind her like banners. He wondered if she'd be in such a hurry if she knew who was out there. He would have told her…probably should have…but they hadn't spoken in three days, and he certainly wasn't going to break the stalemate. 

He tensed when he heard the door open. 

He wasn't afraid so much that Vegeta would hurt anyone. Not physically, anyway. True, if Chichi spoke to the Saiyan prince the way she had spoken to him, Piccolo would most likely have to go down there and scrape her off the walls…but he doubted that would happen. She hated the Demon King far more than she could ever hate Vegeta, who had merely come to destroy the planet, not to steal her child and kill her husband. 

And, in retrospect, Piccolo couldn't really blame her. 

In a way, he was almost glad that she reserved her greatest loathing for him. If Chichi hated_ him_ more than Vegeta, it would keep her from being blown to smithereens…and save him from having to explain to Gohan that his mother was now a thin layer of dust in the house she'd so long strived to keep clean. 

It was himself he was worried about now. Vegeta had always had a talent for getting under his skin…and Piccolo didn't think he was up to a verbal sparring match. 

Quietly, he began making bets with himself as to whether he'd come out of the conversation fuming…or burnt. 

He could hear the prince's footsteps on the stairs: heavy, purposeful. He obviously didn't care _who_ knew he was there. But then, Vegeta seldom bothered with stealth, anyway. Someone that powerful didn't have to. 

Piccolo didn't look up at him, either. He heart that solid tread reach the top of the stairs, heard it moving down the hall toward him…heard it stop right in front of him. 

* * *

Vegeta felt his lips twitch upward in amusement. He knew that the Namekian had noticed him, even though Piccolo had yet to open his eyes - he could tell by the obvious tension in the other warrior's shoulders, the snarl lines that were beginning to deepen on his nose. 

There were very few beings who dared to ignore the Prince of the Saiyans. 

There were far fewer beings that he'd let live, should they ignore him. 

"Namek," he drawled in his usual, mocking tone - one that he intentionally emphasized now. "Fancy meeting you here. I hadn't pegged you for the nursemaid type…"

Piccolo's eyes still did not open. "Phe. Shows how much you know. I just left my ugly white dress in my other cape, that's all…" 

Vegeta felt his smirk grow a bit broader. That was what he appreciated about Piccolo - he talked like a Saiyan. Exactly like a Saiyan. Matter of fact, that was probably why he hadn't had a serious fight with the other man since…well, since the first one. "Too bad, Namek - it would have been an improvement over what you're wearing now." 

He saw one of the corners of the Namek's lips lift up in a smirk worthy of any elite fighter of Vegetasei. "If you say so, Badman." 

Vegeta blinked, looked down at the glaring pink shirt he was wearing, then back up at the green warrior with an expression that meandered from incredulous to irritated. "I don't know how you saw this blasted shirt with your eyes closed, Namek, but…"

"Oh, it wasn't hard," the Namekian interjected smoothly. "It's bright enough to burn right through my eyelids." 

"Cute," Vegeta snapped in return, crossing his arms in an unconscious mirroring of the other being's posture. "The accursed thing wasn't my idea." 

"Much like this visit," Piccolo muttered under his breath. 

Vegeta snorted. "Yes. Exactly." 

At that point, one of Piccolo's eyes did open. There was something genuinely disturbing in it, Vegeta decided - and not just because it was empty of the usual scorn. A moment later, he reluctantly classified that expression as resignation. 

For the first time in a long time, Vegeta felt a weight in his gut like a lead balloon: foreboding. Which immediately made him huffy."I don't know what you people are getting so worked up about, anyhow," the prince snapped at last. "Kakkarottto isn't going to die." 

That one, green-lidded eye seemed to solidify - liquid black to black ice. "Vegeta," Piccolo all but growled, his voice low and rough as always, "I'm in no mood for your Saiyan Supremacy speech. Take my word for it - I don't care what you have to say about real Saiyans not getting sick, real Saiyans not having heart attacks…this isn't Vegetasei. He_ is_ sick. And…" he continued, more quietly, "he_ is_ dying." 

Vegeta didn't bother to hide his skepticism - or muffle his derisive snort. "You don't know the first thing about us, Namek." 

"I know that when Son," the Namekian countered, putting a stronger emphasis on the man's name than usual - phe, since when did he object to 'Kakkarotto?' - "tells me that he's going to die, I believe him." 

Vegeta blinked. _Kakkarotto_had admitted that he was…no. Impossible. Completely impossible. "Don't be any more ridiculous than you already are. He knows he isn't permitted to die," the prince snapped angrily, "except by my hand." 

Piccolo chuckled dryly. "Looks like the bug didn't ask for your permission, Veg. I'm sure it's very sorry to have offended you." 

Vegeta had a retort on the tip of his tongue…and he nearly spat it out, save for one thing. One tiny little thing that had begun to develop as of late…or maybe it had always been there, and he'd just been better at ignoring it. 

'It' was a sort of knowing…a gut feeling. The same one that had told him that blowing this planet to space dust after the Frieza battle would accomplish nothing…the same one that prodded him whenever he looked in the direction of a certain, blue-haired woman. The one that, just now, was telling him that Piccolo was speaking the truth. 

Even though he didn't want to believe it. Even though his pride screamed in outrage and some buried, unidentified part of himself seemed to resonate with emptiness. Even though he had not been the one to cause this death to happen. Even though he'd sworn he would. 

It was true. 

But, because he was Vegeta, he wasn't about to admit that he was wrong. Particularly not to a smug, cold-blooded lizard man. With a contemptuous shake of the head, he stormed by the other warrior, flashing him his best glare as he did so. "We'll just see about that, Namek," he shot over one shoulder. 

And Piccolo didn't answer. Which was, the prince reflected, quite possibly the best retort of all. 

* * *

Piccolo knew better than to enter that room. 

There were things going on in there beyond his understanding…things that were none of his business. Perhaps delicate things that he could disrupt with his presence alone, perhaps shouting matches that he would only make worse. 

Those two were the last of a dying race. Different as sun and moon, yes - but also the same in so many ways. So he waited quietly for the door to either be opened or blown off its hinges…

The door creaked open. 

The man who came out looked a great deal like the prince of the Saiyans, Piccolo thought. Same hair, same height, same clothes…but something was missing. Something that had been so much a part of the other warrior that Piccolo could pinpoint its absence immediately. His confidence. 

Piccolo had never seen Vegeta look so truly shaken in his life. 

The prince's stride was as bold and steady as ever, his shoulders were squared instead of stooped - but his normally-olive complexion was ashen, his eyes were narrowed more than usual, his hands clenched and unclenched sporadically…

"Not one word, Namek," he all but spat as he stormed by. 

Which was just as well. Piccolo wouldn't have had any idea what to say anyway, except that he was sorry. 

But he had the feeling Vegeta would have blasted him for that. 

Sighing heavily - gods, he was doing that a lot lately - Piccolo strode into the room. He had the distinct feeling that Son would want to see him after…after that. The Namekian walked through the door casually, almost as though it were an everyday occurrence for him to visit a dying man. He strode smoothly by the bed, stopping with his face toward the window. 

Where he waited, outwardly patient, for Son to speak. 

* * *

  
  
****


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 Author's note: this is without a doubt one of the hardest things I have ever written. 

* * *

"Piccolo…can I…do you think we could go outside?" Goku asked, his voice wistful. 

The Namekian made it a point not to turn around - he intended to make Son work for this one. The Look wasn't going to help him this time. "Do you feel up to it?" He asked, aware that his voice sounded more gruff than usual and hating himself for it. 

A weary chuckle. "Sa…not really. It's just that breathing's getting kinda hard." 

Piccolo took a deep breath of his own. He could handle this. He knew that he could. "Whatever," he managed finally, sounding far too casual even to his own ears. "Can you walk?" Could Son Goku walk. Could the most powerful warrior he had ever met manage to get himself from the bed to the door. 

"Sure," the Saiyan responded far too quickly. 

Piccolo wanted so badly to tell his former nemesis that he most certainly was _not_ going to make that trek by himself. It wasn't safe for him to push his heart so…not at this point. He should just relax and…and what? And wait around to die? 

"Let's go then," the Namekian muttered. 

He could hear the springs creaking behind him, though he still did not turn around. Seconds later, he could hear the Saiyan's labored tread across the floor. Then he did look. Goku was walking slowly but steadily, his head slightly bowed, his eyes invisible under his bangs. He stumbled once, and Piccolo made as if to catch him…but Son regained his balance and held up a hand, obviously signaling the Namekian to keep his distance. 

Piccolo growled softly, as near as he would come to voicing his concern. Goku did not look up, but he did speak: "Pic…please." 

He bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood - the taste it left in his mouth was acrid and bitter. Son needed to do this on his own; Piccolo could see that, but he didn't have to like it. Goku left the room under his own power, and Piccolo trailed slightly behind like some sort of honor guard. 

The Saiya-jinn paused at the top of the stairs, and Piccolo began to hope that he had reconsidered. A second later, though, he squared his shoulders and started down the flight. One step, two, clutching the railing with a knuckle whitening grip. Three. Pause. Heavy breathing. Piccolo saw beads of sweat trickling down Goku's neck. Four. 

"Son," he began in a sparse whisper. 

The Saiyan shook his head. A fifth step. A sixth. Seventh. Eighth. And then he was on the first floor. Piccolo realized then that he had been holding his breath. Hoping that Son hadn't noticed, he exhaled slowly and moved into step beside his shorter companion. Piccolo had even dared to relax a bit before he remembered that they'd have to cross through the kitchen in order to get outside. 

He had the feeling that this wasn't going to be pretty. 

Sure enough, the moment they set foot in the kitchen, her voice rang heavy in their ears, "Goku, where are you going?" 

Piccolo immediately swiveled his head in the direction of her voice, more out of a sense of self-preservation than of curiosity. She had her back to them and was chopping carrots. The steady thwacks of the knife rang through the small room, each one as assured and final as the falling of an executioner's axe. 

The Saiya-jinn grinned at her back reassuringly, or tried to. "Ah, Chichi-san, we're just stepping out for a minute. I think I need some fresh air." 

"You shouldn't go out, Goku." Her voice was assertive as always, but steeped in something that sounded suspiciously like fear. 

"Don't worry so much, Chichi. It's just for a little while - what can it hurt?" 

She stopped chopping, and her shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. "Alright, Goku. You go ahead - I just need to speak with Piccolo for a minute first." 

The tone she used to say his name reminded Piccolo a great deal of the tone that most people used to describe cockroaches. 

Goku apparently caught a bit of that, too; he looked askance at Piccolo. The Namekian offered him a quick nod in return, and the man walked slowly, slowly out the door. Leaving Piccolo completely alone with Chichi. 

Given a choice between being trapped on a deserted planet with Frieza, Raditzu, and Nappa or being there, in that kitchen with that woman, he would have cheerfully accepted the first scenario and thrown in the whole Ginyu force and King Kai for good measure. 

But he didn't have that option, so he waited silently for the verbal lashing he was certain would come. 

Seconds passed. Nothing happened. He cleared his throat, taking a step forward, hoping to get whatever-it-was over with - she rounded on him abruptly, and he was both astonished and a little alarmed to find the point of a carving knife pressed against his chest. 

"You listen to me," she all but hissed, her eyes suspiciously wet. "You take care of him out there. Understand?" 

Piccolo knew full well that she couldn't kill him. He was fast enough to dodge, most likely he would only take a slight scratch…phe, he knew that. At least, part of him knew that. The rest of him was so paralyzed with shock, indignation, and outright nervousness that he found himself simply nodding, wide-eyed. 

Chichi turned abruptly, attacking the carrots with renewed venom. It was as clear a dismissal as Piccolo had ever seen and, as soon as he was positive that his heart wasn't going to oscillate right out of his chest, he turned and fairly bolted out the door. 

He found Son leaning against one of the walls and, strangely enough, Son_ did_ look better - like a wilting flower that's been placed near a window at last. He had tilted his head back, letting the afternoon sun fall full upon his face. A faint, faint smile touched his whitened lips, and the Nameksei-jinn almost dared to hope that Son might pull through this after all. 

A moment later, though, the Saiya-jinn's already-taxed reserves were spent, and he swayed slightly on his feet as he had before. Piccolo looped an arm around him, and Son sagged into his support almost gratefully. "It's too bad," Son muttered. His eyes had never left the sky. 

"What is?" Piccolo asked, turning his eyes upward as well, though mostly to avoid looking at the man he held. 

"I'd sorta wanted to fly, ya know…one last time." 

Piccolo silently thanked any gods who were listening that he could remain standing in the face of a comment like that. Then, he said something that he had never expected to say, something that should not have come from him: "Do you…" he started, finding it suddenly hard to talk around the lump that was forming in his throat, "want me to carry you?" It couldn't have been he who had asked that, could it? Not he, the lord of demons. 

He could feel Son tense against him, obviously as surprised as he was. 

"Would you?" Goku asked, equally softly. 

Piccolo somehow managed to sound casual. "I said I would, didn't I?" 

Son chuckled, the same soft sound that the Nameksei-jinn had grown so accustomed to over the past few months. "Yeah, sure. You also said you were gonna take over the world, if I remember right." 

"Who says I haven't? Whattaya think I've been doing while you've been napping the past few days, hmm?" 

Goku shook his head. "Very funny. I might've bought that a few years ago, Pic. You're not the person you used to be." 

"That's mostly your doing, Son," Piccolo answered before he thought to deny it. He cursed himself soundly as soon as the words left his mouth…but he was perversely glad to have said them. 

The silence stretched on for a few moments, then Son slapped himself lightly on the forehead. "Oi, this virus thing must've made me dumber than usual. I forgot!" He abruptly brought two fingers two his mouth and whistled. 

Piccolo cringed visibly, his eyes closed for a moment in obvious pain. He opened them in time to catch Son's apologetic grin. "Sorry…forgot that, too. Are you okay?" 

"Hmph. What was that? I can't hear you." 

The Saiya-jinn rolled his eyes. "You're still impossible," he said, looking again to the sky. Kintoen came hurtling through the blue to land obediently before the pair. 

Piccolo shook his head, unsure whether to be more amused or…something else…as Son reached down with one hand to pat the little yellow cloud affectionately. "Hey, Kintoen…long time, no see, huh?" 

The Nameksei-jinn helped Son onto the magic cloud as carefully as he could without _showing_ that he was taking unusual care. Goku sat Indian-style on the fluff, easily as balanced as ever. Piccolo took a step back, waiting for the cloud to take off. There was really no need for him to tag along…no doubt Son would want to do this on his own, anyway. 

Yet, the cloud did not leave. 

Piccolo lost track of how long he stood there, staring at his former rival's back. He could sense that the other was expecting him to say something, though he had no idea what that something could be. Then, Son broke the silence with a strange, strained voice. 

"So, Piccolo…do you think you can keep up with the flying nimbus?" 

Those words. Those same words as that first day…the first time that they had been something other than enemies. The world blurred for a moment, and Piccolo was profoundly glad that Son could not see how close he had come to tears. "Please," he retorted, his voice steady, filled with the same heavy scorn as it had held years ago. "I'd be embarrassed if you could keep up with me on that toy." 

Then, Kintoen did leave the ground, with Piccolo following behind it like a shadow in the evening light. The Nameksei-jinn didn't bother to keep track of where they were going; it didn't matter much to him. The whole journey, he kept his eyes fastened on the fluttering back of Son's gi. While they were flying, it was as though past and present had been plaited together like braided hair; they were a couple of young warriors again, off to face a new challenge, confident of victory. 

Because, for once, they were fighting together. 

It was disconcerting, to say the least. Piccolo felt as though there were two of him, one superimposed over the other. On one hand, the cocky, detached warrior that he had been. On the other, an older, more mature fighter, one who had long since traded in his easy confidence for a kind of field wisdom and his detachment for…associations. Alliances. Even…friendships. 

And Son…Son had no duality because he was exactly the same as he had always been. 

It was selfish, he knew, but Piccolo found himself wishing that this flight could extend forever. That they could forget about viruses and funerals and mourning and families and explanations, that all the complexities of life and death could fade and leave behind only the simple challenge of flight, the relaxed silence, and the red light of the setting sun on ebony bangs and indigo gi. It wouldn't happen, and he was foolish to hope for it, but he had long since learned that his heart was the least reasonable part of him. 

Then, Kintoen stopped as Piccolo had known that it must. Son stood slowly, unshaking, silhouetted against the crimson, western sky. Piccolo took note of their surroundings - an open field. The grass far, far beneath them was rippling like an earthbound ocean…he half-expected Son's wild-haired brother to come striding forth to challenge them, but soon shook his head. He really was getting nostalgic…

Son continued to stand perfectly still, knees bent ever so slightly. With alarming suddenness, he tore the still-present hospital bracelet from his wrist and tossed it vehemently into the grass. The bandage that held the cold compress to his head quickly followed suit. Then, a strange, surreal expression crossed the Saiya-jinn's face, and he turned toward the sunset. Which meant that he was facing away from his Nameksei-jinn companion. 

"That should do it Piccolo," he said softly, and was Piccolo imagining the slight catch in his voice? "Unless you can think of anything else." 

Piccolo wondered briefly if he would be able to continue; the lump in his throat seemed too large to speak around. "What am I," he asked softy, too softly, "your tailor?" 

There was a long, depthless, bottomless silence before Son spoke again. "No. You're my friend…you know what, Pic? I think I'm gonna miss you." 

That was too much; Son had crossed the line that Piccolo had long since drawn in the sand. Admit to respect, never to affection. Accept gratitude, never sympathy. Display tolerance, not…not love. Son knew the rules; he'd discovered them through very prickly, several-year-long trial and error. And here he was, deliberately violating them. Piccolo felt as if he should have been furious. He should have snapped at this impudent warrior, should have left, then and there. But he did not. 

And then, Son took it a step further. "Will you miss me?" 

He felt as though he had backed into some sort of trap; he could no more leave than he could have answered a question like that. He had spent too much of his life building walls - he certainly couldn't tear them all down right at that moment. Yet…he could see that Son's hands had balled slightly…there was a barely-perceptible tremor in his shoulders. Was it that important to him? 

"Son," he started hoarsely, then cleared his throat. "I…don't ask me to answer that. I can't, but…" he closed his eyes, drew a shuddering sigh. "You'll notice that I haven't denied it yet." 

Goku still did not look at him, but he nodded once. "You were wrong, Piccolo. You did answer…and thank you." 

Piccolo snorted softly. "Sentimental idiot. If you keep this up, you're gonna need a crying towel." 

"You're right, I guess," Son answered calmly. "But you know what I think I really need…some exercise." And with that, he and the cloud floated down to earth. 

The Namekian blinked. Exercise? The man could barely walk…he followed him down, the faintest pinpricks of foreboding worrying at the back of his mind like a stubborn dog at a rope. He reached the tops of the long grasses just in time to see Son hop off the cloud. The man spoke softly to it for perhaps a minute - then it rose up and flitted away. 

The minute Son turned to look at him, Piccolo knew exactly what he had in mind. He was so sure, in fact, that he took a step back. So sure that he was unable to control his expression for just a moment - he felt it twist into a familiar set. Pain. 

There was a playful light in the Saiyan's eyes, a trace of the famous grin on his lips. "Hey, what's wrong? I was just gonna ask you to spar with me." 

It took Piccolo a moment to force the words past his stiffened lips, his frozen tongue. "…Son, it'll kill you." 

Goku shrugged, his attitude still incongruously cheery. "Naw, Pic - let's both face it, I'm already dead." 

The rush of…_feeling_…that washed through the Namekian was enough to really, truly scare him. They were raw, utterly unchanneled…wild. They tore through his chest like bats from a cave…for an agonizing moment, he thought that he too was going to die. But somehow or other, he kept himself grounded…he swallowed the ache in his throat. "I can't." 

It was quite possibly the first time he had ever uttered those two words in sequence. I can't. Never in his life had he admitted that he _could not_ do something. _I don't_, yes. _I won't_, all the time. But _I can't_….

The worst of it, Piccolo decided, was that Son Goku _knew._

"Look - I've already said all my goodbyes and everything…there's nothing left for me to do but die, right? I mean, I know people don't really get ready for death, not ever…but I think my family's about as ready as they're gonna be." 

_I'm not ready,_ Piccolo thought frantically…but he didn't say it. He couldn't say it. 

"…an' I think it's just gonna be harder if they have to watch me…stop being me, ya know?" Then, as if he saw that his green companion was still undecided, Goku hit Piccolo with the one argument he couldn't possibly refute. "Come on, Pic - if it was you instead of me, how would you want it? Lying in a bed, bored out of your mind, not able to do anything for yourself, watching while everybody around you tries not to let you see how sad they are…or having one last, really good fight?" 

No question there. None at all. 

So why did he feel as though his heart was coming unraveled, thread by thread? 

_Son, you can't just ask me to kill you _- those words were on the tip of his tongue, but they would have been a lie. Goku could. He already had once, a lifetime ago. And Piccolo had complied. It had been completely different, back then…but he had done it. 

And he knew that he could no more refuse Son this death than the other. He drew into his standard, defensive position, offering his former rival a nod, hoping that he looked more composed than he felt. 

* * *

Seeing the pain written clearly in the lines around his companion's eyes, Son experienced a moment's regret at what he was asking him to do. The gods knew he wouldn't have been able to do the same for Piccolo. 

Flashing the other warrior an apologetic smile, Goku shifted into a crouch, looking for an opening, knowing full well that he wasn't going to find one. Piccolo knew his style too well. 

_Alright. Head-on it is, then._

Goku launched himself forward, one knee pulled up in a hurdle position any gymnast would have envied, one fist cocked back for a punch. The Namekian countered easily, almost without seeming to move. 

Undaunted, he swung his leg in a roundhouse kick, following up with an uppercut - both of which his opponent dodged easily. 

Already, Goku could feel his heart hammering in his ears like a whole drum corps - his breath came as short and fast as if he'd been fighting for hours. He pulled back as quickly as he could…far, far too slow…noticing as he did so that the Namekian didn't follow up as he should have. He merely stood there, face blank, eyes wavering. 

"Piccolo," Goku snapped, shaking his head once to send a spray of sweat flying from his forehead, away from his eyes. "Don't hold back with me. That's the whole point of this - you're _supposed _to win, remember?" 

The Namekian opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head mutely. 

Son would have complained further, but he had the feeling that it just wouldn't do any good. So he decided to try another track. He let a scream build up in his chest, a scream that seemed to start at the very back of his memory, at the first time someone hurt him or his friends - a scream that built through all those years - and, throwing his head back, he let it go. 

When next he opened his eyes, the hair that was falling down around them was gold, not black. And Piccolo was staring at him as if he had lost his mind. 

"Fight me now?" Goku panted, doing his best to ignore the shooting pains in his chest - as though someone had clamped a hand around each of his lungs and was _squeezing_…

He didn't give the Namekian time to answer - he merely dove at him again. 

Goku couldn't have said what was happening. His eyes were too weary to make out much beyond blurs of green and purple, crimson and orange. His heart was so wild in his ears that he could not hear, his breath so frantic in his lungs that he could not feel. 

It took him a moment to realize that he wasn't moving anymore. That he was lying on the ground - that a familiar, if indistinct, green figure was kneeling beside him, indistinguishable from the long grass that danced around him. 

It took him another moment to realize that the pain in his chest had stopped. Utterly stopped. 

It took him yet another moment to realize why that was. He flashed a genuinely relieved smile in the direction that he hoped Piccolo was in. "Thanks," he said, though his voice was more a breath than even a whisper. 

He could hear Piccolo shifting beside him - the sound of his own heart seemed to have muted considerably because he could hear everything, even the grass hissing - he could feel a pair of fingers firm against the side of his neck . 

"Don't bother checking," he managed to gasp out. "S'not gonna be that way much longer." 

"…"

He turned his head a bit, found himself staring into the gray on gray of the sky. _Must've gotten cloudy while we were fighting…looks like we're gonna get wet…_

He couldn't make out where one cloud ended and another began. A few moments later, he wasn't so sure where the division between_ him_ and the clouds was…it seemed like a big, thick gray blanket was wrapping around him. It was kind of cold, but not really unpleasant…

"Son…" A voice, familiar. Piccolo? Ah, right, they'd been sparring, just like always…but it was time for him to go home. 

"Bye, Pic," he murmured, feeling oddly sleepy. And then, though he did not close his eyes, he stopped seeing. 

* * *

Piccolo sat there, just staring at the still, silent body of his first real enemy…one of his few real friends. A man who had never quite been able to stay still while he was alive…

…and he wasn't moving at all now. 

He couldn't believe it. Not even when he felt for a pulse and found nothing. Not even when he watched for breath and saw none. Not even when he touched his arm and found it as cool to the touch as the faint droplets of rain that were beginning to pelt his face. Not even though his chi senses fairly screamed that the man was gone. 

It had finally happened. He was dead. For good. Forever. 

The Namekian felt suddenly very, very empty. There seemed to be a hole in his chest - a vacuum that threatened to suck him in, compress him to nothing. All he could think of was that it wasn't right. Son'd had enough to deal with in his life. Why not let someone else take the virus? Someone who didn't have a family, a life, a whole world to take care of. 

_It should have been me. _

He noticed that sweat had plastered the Saiyan's bangs to his forehead. Somehow, seeing even that gods-awful hair subdued seemed to catch in his throat - with one long, clawed finger, he pried the strands up. They sprang almost joyfully to their accustomed place, weaving in the slight breeze. 

It didn't seem to help. He still felt as though something had torn right through him - much like a memory of his father's. And both times, it had been Son Goku that had ripped the hole…but now he was gone. And even if it still hurt, he had to get over it. He had to let him go. 

"Goodbye, S…" he paused, turned his head, clenched his eyes shut so tightly they actually hurt. No. He couldn't do it halfway. He had to_ really_ let him go. "…Goku," he finished at last, his voice unaccountably hoarse. 

It was the very first time he'd ever called the other man by name. It had started out as an insult, once upon a time…calling him only by his family name. Later, he'd done it from habit…still later, almost as an honorific…

…and because calling him 'Goku' would have been as much as admitting that absolutely everything had changed. Saying it seemed to break something inside: that last little record in his mind that kept screaming that none of this mattered. 

It did matter. More than mattered. It was the most painful thing that had ever happened to him - worse than losing, worse than dying, worse than having Chichi scream at him. Much to his surprise, he felt something hot - not warm, hot - running down his face…as if someone were tracing his cheeks with fired pokers. He wondered if it was because he was clamping his eyes so tightly shut that they bled. Hesitantly, he opened them, brushing a hand across his cheek and pulling it away. 

Tears. He'd never known that tears could burn. 

He heard an odd whistling sound and looked to his right languidly - he didn't much care at that moment who had come, be it Vegeta and his whole family from ten generations back…

He blinked. Floating there, looking as forlorn as is possible for a cloud to look, was Kintoen. "You've gotta be kidding me," Piccolo muttered. Then, feeling horribly conscious of the shell of his former nemesis, cold and still beneath his still-present hand, he whispered, "he's not here." 

The cloud weaved slightly back and forth, swirling far more slowly than usual…it even seemed a bit darker, bronze rather than gold…

Piccolo looked away abruptly, feeling his throat close again. "Get lost," he muttered, hesitantly scooping the body of his…his ally…up in his arms. Dead weight. Dead. "I've got enough problems without a moping puff of condensation following me around." 

He didn't know how he knew that Kintoen was still there - he just did. He turned around and glared halfheartedly at the little cloud. "What's the matter with you, anyway? He's…he's gone. Let him go." 

He wondered if he was talking more to the cloud or to himself. Of course, neither of them could…and the cloud didn't seem inclined to leave. 

"What do you want from me?" He all but hissed. He felt another stream of warmth down the left side of his face and cursed himself silently. 

The cloud seemed to waver. 

Piccolo sighed before he could stop himself. Yelling wasn't going to help. That little cloud had just lost one of the only real friends it had ever had. 

"Yeah," he muttered at last. "I know how you feel, but there's nothing more you can do here. So just… go wherever you go, and do the best you can, alright?" 

He didn't wait for an answer - he merely took flight, a kind of numbness settling over him like the cloak he usually wore. 

Likewise, he didn't take any notice of the rain. He just flew, not permitting himself to think until he set foot in the clearing that marked the house. There, he couldn't help pausing. It was rain pouring down instead of snow. Son was dead, not sleeping. But it still felt like that first night. 

And then, as he had before, Piccolo couldn't quite help pulling his burden a bit closer to himself, couldn't help staring hopelessly at the golden light that trickled from the windows. 

"You…do realize she's going to throw a vase or something at me the minute I walk through that door, Son." He said in a broken whisper before he had time to think. And for once in his life, he was glad it was raining - the trails on his cheeks were as warm as ever. 

He didn't bother knocking at the door of the Son house - he merely walked in. No calling to whoever else was there - they'd find him soon enough. He merely strode into the living room the Saiyan down on the couch automatically, as he had the night he'd brought the man home. By then, a sense of numbness had pervaded his senses…it was too much to grasp. Too much. 

He couldn't have said later where Chichi had come from, or whether the lights in the room were on or off. He could never remember what he'd said, or even if he'd spoken. 

He didn't notice much of anything, in fact, save for the limp, lifeless form lying in front of him. 

He didn't even really hear what Chichi was screaming at him. 

* * *

It was perhaps the first Saturday of her married life that Chichi hadn't done any laundry. 

She'd finished chopping the carrots. She'd washed the dishes. And then she'd walked right into the living room in the middle of the afternoon, curled up in the armchair, and wept like a lost kitten. She told herself again and again that he would come back. He would. He'd come back home. At least, she told herself that for the first hour or two. 

Deep down, though, she knew. She'd known all along. 

Even so, when she heard the door open, her head snapped up. Someone had come home. She listened carefully to the footsteps…the _one set_ of footsteps. Still, a part of her hoped. Maybe Piccolo had finally taken the hint and left. Or maybe he was carrying her husband…

Sure enough, she saw the green fighter turning sideways to get through the door, a familiar, limp form in her arms. Chichi was on her feet and at his side before she even realized that she'd moved, looking at her husband's unusual pallor concernedly. 

"Is he alright?" She asked before she remembered that she was_ not_ speaking to the Namekian. 

Piccolo just looked down at her wearily, as though he didn't really see her or anything else - he looked like a man she'd seen once sitting on a street corner, with nothing to his name but a patch of concrete and a newspaper. A drop of water plummeted from one of his antennae to land on her upturned nose. 

"Piccolo!" she snapped, concern making her voice sharper even than usual. "For the gods' sakes don't just stand there. You're both soaking wet - take him upstairs and…" 

The Namekian walked by her as though she weren't even there, depositing her husband on the couch. Only then did he look at her again, something in his expression giving her warning and answer all at once. 

But she didn't know him well enough to read what exactly those answers were, only that they were there. It was like seeing the signals she'd learned to understand in other humans, but in a different language. She strode purposefully up to the couch, of half a mind to drag him upstairs herself. She put a hand on his arm to shake him awake…

He was cold. 

It took exactly three seconds for her to realize what that meant. Three seconds to completely collapse inside. Three seconds to drench her face and shrivel her heart. Three seconds to realize that he was gone. He was really, truly gone. And she hadn't even fully said goodbye. 

There were a million things she wanted to say, a billion things flashing through her mind…memories, dreams, bits and pieces of the past. He wasn't coming home ever again. He'd left her, left their son, and what was she going to do without him? "I…" she whispered numbly, "I asked you to take care of him." 

The green warrior's eyes flicked in her direction, but he did not speak. 

"I asked you to bring him home." 

"…"

"I meant…" her breath hitched, but she forced her voice to hold almost steady. "I meant bring him home alive. Didn't you know that, Piccolo?" 

"…I'm sorry." 

Only that. No explanations. He wasn't going to tell her about her husband's last moments, his last words…she doubted that any of them had been for her, anyway. His last goodbye had been for his Namekian companion, not his wife. 

She wished she could be angry with Piccolo. She really did. After all, 'I'm sorry' fixed nothing. He'd let her husband die. But then…her husband had been dying anyway. And at least he _had_ brought him home. He'd done what she asked, for whatever reason. And he was sorry. Or he'd said he was sorry. 

He was probably lying, she thought miserably. Probably just trying to get the nagging woman off his back. Probably one more person who wanted to wash his hands of her. But right then, she couldn't bring herself to care. 

* * *

Piccolo knew with a grim certainty that Chichi was going to do something drastic, human, and foolish. He wasn't exactly sure what that thing might be, but he could tell that it was coming in the way that she bit her lip, the brief tremolo that passed through her, the way her shoulders suddenly slumped and her whole form seemed to shrink. 

He'd been trying to guess what said stupid thing was going to be for about three seconds before she fell against him again, sobbing as though there was nothing inside her but grief and water. He felt himself freeze before his mind had even processed what was happening…

Son Goku's widow. Crying. On him, no less. 

He merely stood there and let her cry, wondering for perhaps the sixtieth time that week what exactly was wrong with the world, that such bizarre things should happen…and what was wrong with him, that he should allow it. 

* * *

****


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 6 **

* * *

He was waiting in the cemetery when the black car pulled up. 

Piccolo was fairly sure that no one had even noticed him yet. He was leaning against one of the many trees, droplets of rain sliding down his antennae as though they were blades of grass, his gi so wet that it was nearly black. And besides, no one was looking up. Everyone was simply staring at the hole in the ground. 

For some reason, Piccolo couldn't bare to look at it, so he didn't. He focused his eyes on Son Gohan. The boy was standing ramrod straight next to his mother, who was so wreathed in black cloth that it was impossible for the Namekian to tell how she was faring. 

He hadn't gone to the service - wasn't even sure where it had been held. Temple, church, wherever, he knew that he didn't belong there. Reformed or not, he was Daimao Piccolo, the demon king. He had no idea what would happen if he actually _did_ set foot in a hallowed place, and he had no intention of finding out. Not that he was afraid of Kami…far from it…it just _felt_ wrong. 

Not to mention the fact that he made people nervous. And that the way that most people stared at him made_ him_ want to blow something up. Sometimes he thought that if he'd just do something destructive around them once, they wouldn't watch him so closely…as if they were sure he _was_ going to flip out someday, and they wanted to see it when it happened. 

He would not have come to the burial either, but for Son Gohan. Piccolo was decidedly worried about the boy. He hadn't eaten in the past two days…not since he'd seen his father's body stretched out on the living room floor. He hadn't cried, either. 

And, knowing Gohan as Piccolo did, he knew that that was a very bad sign. 

Of course, no one in the crowd really looked good. It was the single most despondent group that Piccolo had ever seen - damp clothes clinging to slumping bodies, heads bowed, some fists clenched and trembling, others hanging limp like wilted plants. Even Vegeta lacked his usual, cocky smirk. The crowd that had waited for the Saiyans' first arrival had seemed almost jovial compared to this. 

There was a sound, and Piccolo turned his eyes to the black car. They were bringing the coffin out. 

It was easy to convince himself that Son Goku wasn't in that box. There was no telltale chi, no sound, no scent that would indicate his presence. It was just a box, a piece of wood they were putting in the ground, covering with earth…the earth that he had loved so much. 

_Ah, Son…you're not going to give up until you ruin me, are you?_ he thought miserably, casting his eyes downward. 

His only indication that the burial was over was when he heard the car pull away. Only then did he allow himself to return his attention to the field. No one had left. 

Wordlessly, one of the smallest of the figures strode forward, all the way to the headstone. It was a simple marker, unadorned with words or carvings, save for a small, circular depression. And into that depression, Krillen placed something small, spherical, the same glowing orange as Son's gi. 

The four-star dragonball. 

And after that, people began to leave. Slowly, in ones and twos and other small groups. Soon, everyone had gone saver for two - Chichi, who was kneeling by the grave and only then allowing herself to cry, and Gohan, who stood there mutely with his hand on her shoulder. 

_What are you waiting for? A small voice inside him - he would have liked to think it was Nail - chimed. They need you. Go do something. _

_Go do something, he thought wryly. Like what? What could I possibly do? _

You could be there. That would be enough. 

Piccolo didn't go forward for a long time. He stood, and he thought, and he admitted that he was afraid. Irrationally, foolishly afraid. He didn't even know what he was afraid of…that he was growing too dependent, or that they were…that he would make things worse somehow…that they were miserable enough without him intruding... 

And for possibly the first time in his life, Piccolo didn't face that fear. Soundlessly, he turned on his heel and walked away from it, leaving only a pair of footprints by a tree. 

_But they need you…_

And he ignored that, too. 

* * *

Chichi had long since sent her son home. Growing boys like him shouldn't be out in the rain; it wasn't healthy. So she'd told him that she'd be along in a minute. 

But that had been several minutes ago. 

She knew she needed to go home, too. It was getting late, the rain was developing into a full-fledged storm. Ringlets of dripping hair had been blown loose from her normally-neat bun and were straggling around her face like weeping willow leaves…her hands were cold and wrinkled like an old woman's from being wet so long, holding her shawl closed. 

She knew she should go…but not yet. 

Would Goku have waited for her for so long? Would he have been so…so empty inside if she had been the one to die? She didn't know. And that hurt maybe worst of all. 

She wondered what he was doing in the afterlife. Visiting old friends, familiar places…laughing, fighting, having a wonderful time? She wondered if he'd ever think of them at all…if he was thinking of her and their son right then. 

She wondered if she'd be able to find him once she died, or if he'd even bother to come looking for her. 

She wondered just how much longer she was going to stand by his grave, waiting for him to let her know somehow…

A low, gruff voice from close behind caused her to jump. "We're going to have to dig one for you, too, if you stay out here much longer." 

Spinning with all the grace of the fighter she had once been, Chichi found herself staring up at a very familiar being… "I thought you left," she said, unsure whether she sounded more bewildered or cross. 

The Namekian folded his arms in apparent unconcern, speaking in as few clipped, terse words as possible. "I did. Hours ago. I came back." 

Chichi tried to brush some of her hair out of her eyes so that she could actually see a bit better, but it merely tumbled back down. She was suddenly aware of what she must look like - unruly hair, eyes red from crying, wrapped in shapeless, soaking clothes, the very picture of grieving widowhood. She drew herself up to her full height, lifting her head with all the pride she had left. "Why? No one asked you to." 

Piccolo merely snorted. "Listen, woman. I'm not doing this for you." 

"Then why?" she shot back, surprised at the anger in her own voice. She wasn't really mad at him…in a way, she was almost touched that he'd come back to check up on her. It was just…she was used to yelling at him. It was the only way she knew to communicate with him - it was the only thing he seemed to understand. That, and she was tired, and she was grieved, and she didn't need him pitying her, and she hated that he had seen her this way when she'd spent every waking moment of the past few days making sure he couldn't see how weak she felt inside… 

"I don't know. But it isn't for you," he responded flatly. "Now go home," he continued, tilting his head in the direction of her house. 

Chichi blinked. He'd as much as told her that he was completely unconcerned with her, and in the next breath he was telling her what to do! "A lot you care," she snapped. "And if you think I'm going to let _you_ order me around, you have another think coming, you overgrown houseplant! I don't need you." 

Piccolo narrowed her eyes at her - beads of water raced down his brow-ridges to drip down his nose. "Anyone who doesn't have enough sense to get out of the rain - much less a _storm_ - "

"Well, you might be afraid of a little lightning, Mr. Super-Warrior, but I…" 

At that point, a peal of thunder that roared like the end of the world caused her to jump, drawing an involuntary gasp from her as well. 

"You were saying?" he shot back, 'I thought so' stamped all over his normally blank face. 

She very nearly slapped him from sheer pique. Instead, she merely huffed and brushed by him, headed in some random direction, which just so happened to be toward her home. She fervently hoped he wouldn't notice and decide that he'd actually won the argument. 

She was suddenly aware that he was following her. She wasn't sure how she knew - he wasn't making a sound - but she knew he was there. "Did you want something?" she asked sharply, feeling a nervous little knot tighten in her gut. 

"No." 

"Then what do you think you're doing, following me?" 

"You're the one who's big on all this human courtesy nonsense. I'm walking you home." 

She snorted. _Yeah, right._ "More like making sure I actually go." 

His voice was wry when next he spoke. "Yeah. It's like that." 

She very nearly told him exactly what he could go and do, but at that point, a flash of lightning like nothing she'd ever seen tore through the night like a train through a tunnel. She gasped involuntarily, taking a step backward - and directly into Piccolo. 

Which startled her yet again. She might have fallen, had a pair of strong hands not clasped her at the elbows. "Watch it," that low, gruff voice said in an annoyed tone - she could feel his breath on her ear, much to her disconcertion. "I said I'd walk you home, not carry you." 

With an indignant little growl, Chichi jerked out of his grasp and stormed toward her home, well aware that he was still following her, albeit from a greater distance. 

Which was why she slammed the door with a particular vengeance once she was through it. She hoped she caught him right on that hawk-sharp nose of his. Still feeling irrationally angry, she stormed up the stairs, pulling the door to her room shut behind her. With a little sigh, she flopped down on the bed. 

It felt wrong. 

A few moments later, she understood why. Over the past few years, she'd grown accustomed to having Goku sleep beside her. She'd always been able to tell when he was there - the mattress would slope in his direction. If he were close enough, she'd slide right down against him, just from gravity. It was a comfortable feeling, a warm feeling…

For the first time since she was a very, very little girl, Chichi cried into her pillow until long after the first morning birdsong had pierced the sky. 

* * *

  
  
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	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 7 

* * *

Chichi lay in bed that morning for a long time before she got up, just listening to the steady thrumming of the rain on the roof. 

Normally, the minute she opened her eyes, she was up and moving. Starting breakfast. Beginning yet another load of laundry. Doing things that any good, conscientious wife - at least, in her mind - would do. But she wasn't a good, conscientious wife; she was a widow. A confused, conflicted, and very tired widow. She didn't know what she was going to do when she left the safe haven of her bed…so she could just postpone it for a little while. 

At long last, though, she did get up. Slowly. And get dressed. Slowly. And walk to the door. Slowly. 

For the first time in her life, Chichi felt like a very old woman. 

The first thing she noticed when she opened the door was that the house was dead quiet. Was Gohan still asleep? That wasn't like him at all - he was always up early. Then again, he might have been as reluctant to get up as she was…

She trudged to his room, knocking lightly on the door. "Gohan…sweetheart, are you up?" 

No answer. 

She knocked a bit more loudly. "Gohan?" 

Nothing. 

She opened the door gingerly. "Gohan, really, you should…" 

He wasn't there. And that bed hadn't been slept in. And the carpet was bone dry. Gohan hadn't come home. Her little boy had been out in the rain all night…who knew where…what kind of terrible mother was she, that she hadn't noticed that he was gone until the next morning? 

All this, she was thinking as she ran down the stairs and bolted outside. The rain was thick but steady, and she was soaked to the skin in a matter of seconds in spite of her heavy shawl. Hurriedly, she glanced around, looking for her son…no sign of him. 

"Gohan!" She called, just in case he was in earshot. 

No answer. 

"GOHAN!" she cried again, pouring all her breath and all her heart into that cry. He had to hear her...he had to. She had no idea where to look for him…

"For the gods' sakes, woman, what's all the screaming about?" 

Chichi had _never_ been so glad to hear that voice in her life. "Piccolo!" she exclaimed, forgetting even to sound disdainful. She looked up, blinking rainwater out of her eyes frantically; the Nameksei-jinn warrior was hovering a few feet above the ground, arms crossed, expression set in annoyance. 

A snort. "Brilliant deduction." 

She found herself smiling in weary relief - he could have mocked her all he wanted right then, and she wouldn't have cared. Just as long as he'd help her find her baby. 

"Piccolo, Gohan didn't come home last night…I don't know where he is, and I…" she trailed off when she saw his face twitch, just once…he almost looked concerned for a moment before he lapsed into a mask of concentration. 

"Go back inside, woman." 

"Then you'll find him?" she asked - and the pleading note in her voice would most likely have embarrassed her, had she been able to hear it through the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. 

Much to her consternation, he landed beside her, took her firmly by the shoulders, turned her around, and pushed her lightly in the direction of the door. "What I do and don't do aren't your concern, woman. Go back inside." 

Chichi bit the inside of her cheek to keep from snapping back at him. Because she knew that the 'Piccolo translation' to what he'd said was 'yes,' and she'd risk a little loss of face to keep from changing his mind. 

* * *

Piccolo waited until he was sure - absolutely sure - that the obstinate woman wouldn't be coming back outside to follow him before he checked for Gohan's chi. Yes, he was worried…but not nearly so badly as she was. Gohan was tougher than she thought, a lot tougher - physically, anyway. 

Emotionally, he was pretty banged up. 

Piccolo had felt him go running off the night before, but hadn't followed. Some instinct, some sense had warned him that the boy needed time alone - and if he managed to get himself into any real trouble, Piccolo knew that he could reach him in about thirty seconds. But his student had been alone long enough. 

He didn't fly in the boy's direction. He walked. Normally, he considered walking a complete waste of time, but in this case, time was exactly what he needed. Time to figure out what he was going to say. Time to clear his head. 

Time to wonder what in the gods' names was wrong with him. 

He walked into the woods, barely noticing the way that the damp branches brushed his clothing like clammy fingers. He was already soaked to the skin - a bit more water made little difference to him. His concentration was wholly devoted to finding his student…or rather the small, despondent scintilla of chi that marked his student's position. 

Piccolo found the boy sitting with his back against a tree, arms folded around his knees, head down so that his hair tumbled down around him like a curtain. He looked almost like a roosting crow…a very mournful, roosting crow. 

For one of the very few times in his life, Piccolo found himself completely tongue-tied. Unsure of what to say…or how to say it…the massive Nameksei-jinn cleared his throat. 

Gohan didn't even jump. "Hey, Mr. Piccolo," he said miserably. "I was wondering when you'd show up." 

Something inside Piccolo cringed at the way that the boy spoke - more as though he were greeting the grim reaper than his teacher. Silently cursing himself for being so terrible at this father-son crap, he could come up with only two painfully inadequate words: "You okay?" 

He saw the boy's shoulders rise and fall in a heartfelt sigh. "Not really." 

Piccolo bit his lip, swallowing a large portion of his pride… "Look, kid…if there's anything I can do…" 

Gohan's voice, when next he spoke, had a faint, familiar quiver in it. "Please, sir…just…just go?" 

The Nameksei-jinn blinked, for a moment not fully comprehending. "What?" 

"I…I'm sorry, Mr. Piccolo," Gohan continued, burrowing further into himself if such a thing was possible. "I know I promised you that I'd try to be strong for him, and not cry and all, but I…I couldn't do it, and…" 

Piccolo had never felt so much like kicking himself. This whole time, he'd been wondering what was wrong with the boy, and it had been his fault all along. _Typical, Piccolo_, he thought angrily_. No matter how bad things are, you've always gotta find ways to make them worse, don't you? _

"Gohan," he said at last, interrupting the boy in mid-apology. "You know what the best thing about rain is?" 

The boy didn't look up; he merely shook his head. His hair still covered his face, so Piccolo had no idea what might be written there. 

"No one can tell whether you're crying or not." 

The boy lifted his head at last. His face was soaked, his eyes red and puffy. "Really?" he asked doubtfully. 

"Yeah." 

Gohan managed a weak, watery smile. "Thanks, Mr. Piccolo." 

Somehow, Piccolo couldn't help but wonder how a boy of nine years could manage to catch all the things he didn't say right along with the things he did. Deciding that it must have something to do with being too young to know that words were just words, Piccolo sat down beside his first friend and waited for the venting to start. 

* * *

In the past day, Chichi had accomplished a vast number of things. She'd cleaned the house. She'd fixed diner. She'd warmed that dinner up twice before she'd finally given up and packed it all away in the freezer. She'd twisted her apron almost beyond recognition with her worry. 

And still, there was no sign of her little boy. 

Surely Piccolo had found him. She didn't have a great deal of fondness for the massive alien, but she _did_ have a healthy respect for his abilities. If Gohan were alive and on the planet, Piccolo would find him. 

Of course, if he wasn't…_no_, she thought, appalled at herself, _don't even think that. _

Which could mean only one thing: Gohan didn't want to come home yet. Her boy didn't want to come home. Her little boy was staying away from her. She wondered what she would do…what she could _possibly_ do, if she lost him as well…

There was a knock on the door, echoing through the house like a bass drum at a parade. She all but flew to it, flinging it open. 

It was all she could do to keep from weeping with relief. 

Standing there, wet and muddy and bedraggled and utterly apologetic, was Gohan. He offered her a very hesitant smile. "Um…hi mom…I'm home…"

She didn't even hesitate before she pulled him into an embrace, soggy clothes and all. "I'm glad, sweetheart." 

He smiled grew a thousand times more genuine. "Me too - is there anything to eat?" 

Wordlessly, Chichi stepped aside as the boy bolted into the kitchen. She was on the verge of following when a movement caught her eye. She looked out into the yard in time to see a dark shape through the rain, turning as if to go. It was a tall shape, and a damp one…almost black against the dreary backdrop. 

"Piccolo," She called softly. 

The shape froze. 

She started to simply call thank you to him. After all, being around him was unnerving…he was so _big_, so much stronger than she was…so angry all the time. She always had the feeling that any minute, he would just come completely unglued as he had the first time she'd seen him fight…

Thus, she wasn't quite sure what made her step off the porch and venture out into the rain after him. 

He didn't move. Not even when she was right next to him. He just stood there, shoulders back, brows drawn…almost as if he were a soldier standing at attention, but his arms were crossed. He was darker than she'd ever seen him, dampness making his skin color closer to evergreen than to grass, and his gi closer to midnight than to maroon. It almost helped - wet and ragged as he was, he almost looked like a completely different Nameksei-jinn. A total stranger. 

She noted absently that she hadn't seen him dry since…well, since he'd taken Goku out that last time. The constant soaking had utterly changed the shape of his gi - it clung to his torso like a second skin in places, highlighting muscles with little folds in others, dipping lower than usual across his well-defined chest…

_Stop staring,_ she thought furiously, reminding herself sternly that this was the enemy. She didn't need to be just standing around him like this - he might get the idea that she didn't mind being with him. _Thank him,_ she ordered herself with the firmness that she had normally directed exclusively at Goku. _Get it over with - Thank him and get back inside before you catch pneumonia. _

The words that came out of her mouth surprised her at least as much as they did him, she was sure. "Where are you going?" 

The Namekian looked at her, night-hued eyes wide with mild surprise, quickly hidden. He shrugged. "Don't know." 

She blinked. "Well…where do you live?" she asked, forgetting even to kick herself for starting a conversation with him. 

He indicated the woods with a wide sweep of his hand. "Wherever." 

The concept was so foreign to her that it took her several moments to digest it. Home had always been a very important thing to her; she'd always needed one. A nice, specific place, controlled and safe. Home was something that was never supposed to change, even when it…did, sometimes…she blinked back tears, forgetting that her face was already soaked and that he'd never notice anyway. "So…so what happens when it rains?" she asked, mostly to distract herself. 

He actually smirked at her. "What do you think happens, woman? I find somewhere - or I get wet, whichever." 

She could do nothing but stand there for several breaths after that. "So you don't have anyplace to…"

"Hey," he all but snapped. "Keep this straight; I'm not human. I go where I want, when I want. That's all there is to it." 

_Let it go!_ Her inner, sensible self screamed. But she ignored it. "Do you…do you want to come in?" 

He stared at her as though she'd grown a tail and started firing energy blasts. "…What was that?" He asked at last, shaking his head. "I think I had water in my ears." 

Chichi very nearly dropped whatever it was that she was doing right then…almost turned and ran back to her comfort zone before she could manage to act any stranger. But instead, she said, "I just asked if you wanted to come in for a while. We have plenty of room, and…"

The way he was looking at her stopped her cold. "Do I look like a charity case to you?" he snapped, shooting her a particularly cold glare. "I didn't bring that boy home because you asked me to, woman…I did it for him. So you can stop with this payment crap." 

She actually blinked. He sounded a lot like she did when Bulma offered her money. And for that reason, she knew just how to deal with that… "So stay for him, just for tonight? He'd love to have you here, and the house is so quiet anyway without…without Goku…besides, you're going to catch a cold standing out here in the rain for days at a time." 

He rolled his eyes. "Don't pin your pathetic human weaknesses on me. A little water won't kill me," he said coolly…right before he sneezed. 

Chichi felt her lips curling upward into her famous 'I thought so' smile. 

"Not a word, woman," he warned, glaring at her still more firmly. 

She couldn't help it - she laughed. She laughed for the first time since her husband had been sick. "Alright, Piccolo." Then, she took one of his forearms with both her hands and led him casually toward the house, all but dragging him through the door. 

She was very careful to keep her eyes cast forward - if she caught sight of that hilariously confused expression on his face one more time, she knew she'd start laughing again. 

* * *

Piccolo couldn't help but feel a bit dazed as he ducked to follow her through the door. He didn't get it - one minute, she was screaming at him, the next, conversing…and now, she was mothering him. He wondered if there was some logic to the way that she was acting, or if she were simply insane. 

He decided then and there that he didn't understand human women. Especially Chichi. 

"Stand right there," she said as though she had full confidence that he would obey, closing the door behind them. 

He did so as he watched her walk down the hall, unsure why he didn't just turn around and bolt out the door. Cowardly? He didn't care. This was the first time she'd really treated him almost as a person rather than the living embodiment of everything wrong with her life…and he couldn't help but wonder if it was some sort of plot to get him off his guard. She was probably pouring insecticide into a glass of water at that very moment…

She re-entered the room, carrying a large, white bit of cloth…a towel? "Here," she said, lip twitching. "So you can stop making a pond in my house." 

Glancing down, he realized that he was indeed creating a puddle. Doing his best to look completely unruffled, he took the towel from her and dried his face. 

"Now take off some of those wet clothes before you start sprouting gills." 

He looked at her, one eyeridge raised. "Suppose I told you I already had gills?" 

She shot him a warning look, putting her hands on her hips. 

"Alright, fine," he grumbled, removing his shirt in one smooth motion and holding it almost at arm's length. 

Piccolo had never been an overly modest person; in fact, he'd always considered human attitudes on the subject to be a little ridiculous. However, something about the way she looked at him right before she hurriedly glanced away, face flushing, almost made him understand it. 

To the point where he experienced an irrational urge for a trench coat. 

He shuddered once, sourly blaming it on the fact that he was still wet…which turned out to be yet another mistake. He was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea in hand so fast it almost made his head spin. Whatever had been bothering Chichi had apparently passed…and she was in full mother-mode. 

Even Piccolo realized that there would be no escaping her clutches at that point - for whatever reason, she'd made up her mind that he was going to be her project for the evening. He wondered if he could dump the tea somewhere while she wasn't looking…

As if she had read his mind, she asked, "Aren't you going to drink it?" 

He shook his head. "Namekian. I don't drink tea." 

"Have you ever tried it?" 

"No." 

She rolled her eyes. "Are you really that set against trying something different?" 

Habitually, he shot her a look of annoyance. "What's so great about different?" 

"What's so bad about it?" she countered. 

Piccolo just stared at her for a moment. "It's funny," he said at last, his tone more than a little bitter, "that you always hear that from people who aren't. 

For some reason, he got no satisfaction whatsoever from rendering her speechless. 

It was a good ten minutes before either of them spoke again - and it was Chichi who broke the silence. "So…you must be tired." 

"Not very," he replied. He had a feeling that she was suggesting something…but he had no idea what. 

"I meant…it's late." 

He shrugged one shoulder automatically. 

Finally, the woman threw both hands up in the air in exasperation. "Not exactly a master at taking hints, are you?" 

"What's the point?" he shot back, surprised to feel his lip twitch. This wasn't their usual kind of argument…not malicious so much as…well, something he didn't quite understand. 

She shook her head. "Fine. I'm going to bed - you know where to find yours." 

And she left. He watched her sweep out of the room, still fighting that odd twitching thing his lips seemed to be doing. Then he glanced back at the teacup, eyeridges drawn low. With a noncommittal snort, he drained it in a single draught. _Not terrible, _he decided_. Not something I'd want to do every day, but…not terrible. _

And even he wasn't sure whether he was referring to the conversation or the drink. 

* * *

  
  
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	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 8 **

* * *

**THREE MONTHS LATER…**

Chichi didn't even jump when she heard the front door open - she knew full well who it was. The one being she'd never quite managed to train to knock. He hated knocking…matter of fact, he hated doors. She also knew that he wasn't going to say a word until she did. He was just funny that way. 

"The door's open," she said, fighting back a grin as she continued to pull the seemingly unending stream of damp clothes from the washing machine to the laundry basket. 

A noncommittal snort from the doorway. "I hadn't noticed." 

"He's at school," she continued. It had become routine with them - what to say and what not to say. She knew that if she ever accused Piccolo of coming to see_ her_, he'd fume for at least an hour. Someday she planned to spring that one on him, just for laughs. To her mind, very few things were as funny as a seven-foot-tall alien warrior in a sulking fit. 

"By the way, you've got a dead deer on your porch," he said in his usual, matter-of-fact manner. 

And even this part of the routine had ceased to surprise her. "Hit another one training? Goodness, Piccolo, you should be more careful." 

She could almost hear him bristling at the overplayed obliviousness in her voice. That was yet another thing that, at least outright, she didn't dare accuse him of: feeding them. At first, she'd wondered how she and Gohan would make do without her husband's hunting habit…but little more than a day after she'd invited Piccolo in, he'd shown up on her doorstep with something he'd 'accidentally' killed, wondering if she could possibly take it off his hands…

Of course, she'd noticed some odd coincidences within the first few deliveries. Number one: Piccolo was too skilled to let so many of his blasts go wild. Number two: for some strange reason, every single blast happened to be very small, and located either directly behind an ear or above the heart. Number three: the casualties were fairly regular…say, once or twice a week. Usually on the same days. She had to suppress a laugh just thinking about it - trying to be subtle or not, Piccolo was a creature of habit. 

Or maybe deep down, he wanted her to know. She was never really sure with him. 

At any rate, she turned at that point to look at him. From the look of it, at least part of his story about hitting something training was true - he _had_ been training at the time. And looked as though he'd brought the whole desert along for the ride. Chichi wrinkled her nose, doing her level best to look disapproving rather than as if she were trying not to grin at him. "Piccolo, if you're here to see my son, you aren't going to do it looking like that." 

He blinked at her. 

"For Kami's sake, you look like you've been through a war." 

He crossed his arms, raising an eyeridge in a what-exactly-do-you-suggest-I-do-about-it manner. 

She crossed her arms as well, in a very conscious mockery of his pose. "Oh, come on…you know the drill by now, right?" 

One of his antennae actually quirked. "What's wrong with the drill?" 

Chichi chuckled in spite of herself. "It's just that we've been through it before. Would a little change every once in a while really kill you?" 

Gruffly, "It might." 

"Where's your spirit of adventure?" She asked, grinning in a coy manner oddly reminiscent of her younger days. 

A snort. "Dead already." 

"Piccolo, I seriously doubt that you'd shrivel up and die if you just…"

"Look who's talking," Piccolo shot back flatly. "You haven't changed a bloody thing in all the time I've known you, if you could help it." 

"That's not true." 

The Namekian smirked in the infuriating, now-I've-got-you way of his that, no matter the context, always made her want to throw something at him. "You name me _one_ voluntary change you've made in the past…oh…ten years. One." 

There were some. She knew there had to have been hundreds…but it was like being told, on the spot, to name a hundred old TV shows. Her mind simply wouldn't put forth the information… "Hmph," she said at last, picking up the laundry basket and breezing past him, through the door. 

"Do I need to say I told you so?" he asked…and she was sure that he'd followed her outside. Somehow she always knew when he was following her. 

"Well, you definitely_ don't_ need to be so smug about it," she said in return, setting down the basket at last in front of the clothes line. "But just because I don't turn my whole life upside down every day doesn't mean it's not a good thing to do once in a…"

She cut herself off when she felt an arm…easily as big around as her leg…latch around her waist from behind and pluck her from the ground as if it were simply picking a daisy. "Piccolo, what are you…" 

Again, she didn't finish - she swallowed her words when she felt him leave the ground. They were a good twenty feet in the air and still climbing before she found her voice again. (Squeakier than she would have liked….but at least it was her voice.) "Piccolo!" 

Was it her imagination, or did she hear a slight chuckle from him? "What's wrong? You were the one who wanted me to try something new." 

Any rejoinder she might have made flew right out of her head when she looked down at her rapidly shrinking back yard. "This was_ not_ what I had in mind, and you know it!" She snapped at last. "Now put me _down_, Namek!." 

His voice from behind her sounded especially dry. "You don't really want to go down already, do you? Where's your spirit of adventure?" 

"We left it on the ground. Which is where _I'd_ like to be" she returned in as belligerent a tone as she could manage under the circumstances. She wished he'd at least picked her up so that she was facing him so that she could see what was going on. 

"You've only been up here for ten seconds, woman," he said in a way that let her envision the sarcasm dripping off every word. "Aren't you going to give it a chance?" 

"Not if I can help it," she snapped. No doubt about it - Piccolo was acting weird. Much weirder than normal…so much so that she almost didn't know him. "Now put_me_down. Now." 

She could feel him shrug behind her. "Okay, your call." 

And she realized a split-second too late why he'd given up so easily. 

This bit of enlightenment came to her when she felt the arm around her waist withdraw. 

Chichi had had the occasional dream about falling, but this was nothing like she'd imagined it would be. Her life didn't flash before her eyes…everything wasn't in slow motion. It was simply a rush of air that tore past her like the strongest gale she'd ever felt, and a dizzying view of the ever approaching-ground…

…completely eclipsed by purple fabric. 

She'd thrown her arms around his neck automatically before she'd even realized that he'd caught her…it had been as instinctive a grab for safety as a drowning victim's, and every bit as choking. She didn't even care - just buried her face in those folds of cloth and drew steady, heavy breaths. 

"Oh come on, woman," that familiar baritone voice said stiffly. "You didn't really think I'd drop you." 

"Well, you _did_," she snapped back…still not lifting her head from his shoulder, still not lessening her grip one iota. 

He made a low, irritated sound in the back of his throat. "You know what I meant." 

Did she? 

Was the fact that she had to think about it _at all_ an automatic negative? 

But she _was_ thinking about it. About him. About how a few months ago she hadn't been able to look at him at all without wanting to string him up by his ears. About how he'd seemingly waltzed from the outer edges of their lives right into center stage overnight. About the way he'd looked the first time she'd ever seen him - fangs bared in an insane grin that could have been plucked from a wolf's mouth, eyes dilated with an odd sort of pain that she couldn't begin to understand. About the way he'd looked the last time he'd brought her husband home…so tired. And about how much her husband had trusted him. 

About the way he'd just sort of stepped in…so gradually that she almost hadn't noticed. The way he spoke to her - sarcastically, gruffly, but never really harshly…

Feeling a little better, she glared up at him and thwacked him solidly on the chest with the flat of her hand. "Well, don't _ever_ do it again." 

He smirked at her in a way that almost seemed relieved, his eyes glinting like polished onyx. "Why would I do that? S'not exactly new if you try it more than once." 

She wasn't sure whether she wanted more to laugh or to smack him upside the head. She was still trying to decide when she felt him stiffen. Not a normal tensing, either…but more as if he'd just been hit with a thousand volts of electricity. His head snapped over his left shoulder, usually-sharp eyes dilated as if by narcotic…expression practically vibrating with tension, to the point where his antennae twitched. 

Chichi had never felt her heart drop so fast in her life - she wondered for a moment if it really _had_ dropped out the bottom of her shoes and plummeted to the ground. She'd seen that look before. She'd hated that look. It was the one Goku always wore right before…

Next thing she knew, she was standing on the ground. He had put her down and stepped back…seeming distracted, distant…he turned away from her, bending his knees to take off. 

"Piccolo!" she managed to choke out, stumbling to his side, clenching the corner of his shirt with one hand. 

He paused. Yes, he actually paused. Turned his head as if just remembering that she was there…lips pressed into a bloodless line, startlingly pale against his emerald-hued skin. Looked down at her expectantly with those ever-changing eyes. 

And she knew that she would _never_ be able to talk him out of going to fight whatever he had felt, whatever had caught his attention. So she did the only thing she could think of, the only thing that felt right. "…be careful…"

He blinked in obvious surprise…his only answer being a slight lifting of one corner of his mouth. 

And while this change happened, she was measuring the distance upward…she stood way, way up on tiptoe, taking the collar of his gi in one hand…pulling him down just far enough to peck him lightly on the cheek. "And I mean it," she finished, trying to sound menacing…trying not to cry…as she let go. 

She got only slight satisfaction from seeing the truly amazing shade of purple that the former demon king had turned. Piccolo took a step back…obviously unsure what to say…finally just clearing his throat and taking off. She thought she could hear him mutter something under his breath as he left…something pertaining to crazy human women….but she wasn't quite able to catch it. 

And she couldn't quite help smiling at him as he disappeared over the horizon. 

* * *

Chichi felt like a stranger in her own body watching the news that night. Three cities destroyed…completely…and long distance footage of explosions. It was all familiar. Very familiar. And happening again. 

She had no idea where any of them were…her son, her friends…her….well, anyone. 

But she had a terrible feeling. And those were always right. 

She sat staring at the TV as ten turned to twelve and twelve to one…was still watching the repetitive updates as the sun came up the next morning. And no one yet home. She was curled up on the couch like a cat, knees drawn up to her chest, chin on her knees, arms bracketed around her legs. She wasn't crying. Yet. 

But she knew the moment Gohan burst through the door, hair wild raven's feathers about his face and eyes brimming. And she cried. For relief, because her baby was alright, and he was home…

For sorrow, because she knew someone who would never come home again. 

* * *

  
  
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	10. Chapter 10

**Epilogue**

* * *

She wore no black this time.

She was trudging up the hill to the cemetery, a handful of flowers in her hands. Not roses. Not orchids. Not for him, not for them. Thistles and dandelions. And she knew that they would understand. 

Or rather, Goku wouldn't have known the difference - a flower was a flower to him. Piccolo would understand. Or would have understood. How odd was it that she'd accepted that her husband was dead within hours…and yet the strange, solitary being that had literally stumbled into her life with barely even a hello still seemed so much a part of it? 

She couldn't quite suppress a sigh…and thought that she would have liked to have cried again, but she was out of tears. Yes, it would be strange without him…his constant sarcasm, his peculiar ways…his own language, composed of sidelong looks and half-smiles and faint tilts of the head. The way he'd listened to her. He hadn't always done what she said…in fact, hardly ever had…but he'd _listened. _

But then, losing a friend was always hard…wasn't it? 

It wasn't as if she'd been in love with him, after all…she knew she'd get over him eventually. If she could ever accept that it had happened to begin with. She forced herself to try to think of him as dead. Thinking of him…that was the easy part…he'd been on her mind so much as of late anyway. But picturing him as a flesh-and-blood statue stretched out in a coffin…that was impossible. The closest she could come was a mental image, unbidden, of him stripped to the waist, dripping with water, head tilted to one side with an expression of puzzlement as uncomfortable on his face as a bikini on a nun…

Chichi forced that image out of her mind as quickly as she could…disgusted with herself. Not only was he dead…he was asexual…and as cold and distant as the moon he'd blown up. And she didn't…hadn't…loved him. At all. 

Which would explain why she was trudging up that hill…a handful of weeds in tow…tear trails still wet on her face…to say goodbye to him. 

It was shameful, really…for her. She was supposed to be a responsible mother, a faithful wife…she should have been thinking about Gohan, not falling head over hem into an impossible, dead-end relationship with someone who most likely could not have returned her feelings…even if he hadn't died. This was completely whimsical…more suited to a starry-eyed teenager than a mother…

And then she realized that she was standing by the grave. And the tombstone that, in her mind, anyway…was a monument to both. Goku's body, and a little piece of Piccolo's soul…the dragonball. She would have liked to have buried the Nameksei-jinn warrior…but if Gohan hadn't brought the body home, then there probably wasn't enough left of it to…

She couldn't finish that thought. Even beginning it brought brand new tears to her eyes and tied her throat in a knot. Instead, she forced herself to look up…to see the tombstone…and the small, ordinary ball of stone that would confirm the death of the Nameksei-jinn warrior. 

And saw her own reflection, orange and distorted, eyes puffy from grief, hair disheveled, expression disbelieving…then understanding…

The dragonball was still orange. Still Live. Still active….

Piccolo wasn't dead - or not yet, at any rate. 

Next thing she knew, she was skidding down the hill, dropped flowers scattering in the wind of her passing. She was running full out to the little air car…not bothering to open the door, but vaulting in with a skill that an Olympic gymnast might very well have envied. She didn't even stop to wonder just what exactly she was going to do until she was well within the borders of Gingertown. 

Or what had once been Gingertown. 

It was easy to forget just how destructive a chi battle could be. It had only been around three years since she'd seen the effects of one, and already she had forgotten so much…the smell of ozone, the black streaks, the giant gashes that rent the earth…but this was within a city. Which made it infinitely worse. 

Gutted skyscrapers stood at crazy angles or lay about like toppled Lego towers…cars were scattered about like rice thrown at a wedding, smashed in and crippled. Broken glass twinkled dully with the blue and red lights of a single, forlorn police siren that lay bereft of its car…alone in the center of the street…a pair of mismatched eyes, blinking in mute shock at the city they had traveled all their lives. 

They weren't the only ones shocked. 

There was no order to the world that Chichi found herself standing in. Alleys had been bared to the sunlight, main streets had been turned into tunnels by the falling debris…pavement had literally been melted in places, running together with metal and glass…

And how was she ever going to find him…in this. 

Pursing her lips in determination, she pulled her car along the remnants of what had once been a school….continuing on foot. She would find him. She had to find him. So she walked. 

She walked for what felt like years…picking her way over piles of debris, skirting the larger obstacles…not daring to call for him. Finally, it all started to blend together…pieces of lives, pieces of people, scraps of cloth and memories…a dead city, the tiny, fleeting hope from earlier nearly _as_ dead. 

Finally, with quite possibly the deepest sigh she had ever breathed in her life, Chichi sank down against a relatively undamaged brick wall, brushing a soot-smudged hand irritably against eyes that were no doubt watering from the residual dust. 

She was only just beginning to realize the futility of searching for a single body in the mass grave that had been Gingertown. The feeling of hopelessness….helplessness…. would have swept her from her feet if she hadn't been sitting. She wasn't going to find him. He must have been hurt, or he would have come back. He was going to die…and she couldn't find him. 

She turned her head, chastising herself harshly for being such a coward. She would find him somehow. She had to. 

Then she saw it. Smeared across the bricks was a streak of indigo, like a brand new sort of graffiti….or as if someone had fallen along it, and the harsh surface had scraped blood…

Chichi was up and running beside the wall in barely a breath, still-strong legs pumping…until she reached the end of the trail. Her eyes were nearly frantic as they combed the surrounding area…no body…nothing…just a mangled streetlight…and a pile of rubble…

And a green hand protruding from beneath, so coated with dust and dried blood that it appeared to be simply another bit of debris. 

She slid in next to the rubble like a runner coming into home, hesitating only a moment before taking that massive hand in both of hers…and that hesitation was only because she was afraid of clasping a hand…and nothing else. 

That fear was proven unfounded when she felt the hand twitch….tremble…the long, corded fingers close weakly around the warmth of hers. She spent a silent moment thanking Kami….before she remembered that the other was most likely buried under at least a ton of rock….and would no doubt appreciate getting out. Now. 

Immediately, she knelt and began casting aside bricks….pipes….gravel….general rubble. It seemed like a small eternity before her hands encountered something warm, sticky, and breathing. With a definite sigh of relief, she renewed her efforts, seeking the best way to dig him out…

Piccolo was obviously not content to wait. She couldn't quite stifle a gasp as he practically jackknifed to a sitting position, eyes closed against the grit, chest heaving with deep breaths. He brought his other hand up and swiped the back of it across his eyes so that he could see. 

He turned his head, and he looked at her with the most clear expression of amazement on his face that she had ever seen. "What are you doing here?" 

By way of answer, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. And he let her…though once she let him go, she noted that she'd never seen anyone look so confused. Not even Goku. 

* * *

Chichi almost felt bad for causing such an uproar at the hospital in New Hope City. The nurses going back and forth through the lobby were all pale as porcelain, and they jumped at every little sound that might even remotely constitute a very large being getting fed up and exiting a hospital room in a less than conventional manner. 

The woman couldn't help but grin a little at that. So Piccolo hadn't exactly been a model patient. She supposed it was time to go in and check up on him…and deliver the periodic threat to keep him where he was. 

She walked calmly up to the door that the nurses were avoiding as though it carried the black plague, put on her best mother face, and opened it. 

Gohan, of course was sitting on a stool by the bed, a math book opened across his lap. The boy's face had actually regained a bit of its color now that he knew at least one of his friends…quite possibly his oldest and the closest to his heart…was alive. He hadn't left the massive warrior's side, and for once, Chichi didn't really mind. Gohan was almost smiling. She had been afraid for a while that the expression of utter heartache would never leave his face…and anything that could make that much difference was worthwhile in her book. 

Piccolo, on the other hand, did not look so cheerful. He was sitting up in bed, arms crossed, shoulders slightly hunched. His eyes were fastened to the opposing wall in a stony glare. 

She stifled a laugh with some difficulty. If he had any idea how funny she found his sulking fits…

Instead of laughing, she put her hands on her hips. "What have I told you about terrorizing the orderlies?" 

"I'm not speaking to you," he retorted, glaring harder at the wall. 

"Well, pout all you want," she answered, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, "you're still staying put until the doctor says you've replaced at least half the blood you lost." 

"I am NOT pouting." 

"I thought you weren't speaking to me, either." 

"Hmph." His brows drew so low into a scowl they very nearly covered his eyes. She could have sworn she saw Gohan laughing silently behind his textbook. 

She knew she was pushing it at this point, but she couldn't resist leaning down and giving him another peck on the cheek. Immediately, he turned a deep shade of purple…and Gohan, nearly choking on his laughter, exited the room. 

The former demon king snorted, though oddly enough, he didn't really seem to mind. "There're rules here for everything…isn't there at least one that says you can't molest the patients?" 

"Sorry, bud - not a one," she answered. 

As his color began to change from plum to his normal, leafy shade, he turned his head a bit to look at her, the scowl softening ever so slightly. "Guess I'll just have to deal with it, huh?" 

Chichi crossed her arms, consciously mocking his don't-screw-with-me pose. "You better believe it." 

As for Piccolo, he merely shrugged. "It won't be anything I can't handle," he shot back, his trademark smirk pulling up at one lip. 

She didn't know if he meant more by that than he was saying, or if he really was as oblivious as he looked…but she had a definite feeling that somehow, everything was going to turn out alright anyway. 

And those feelings were never wrong. 

* * *

  
  
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